


One for Sorrow

by naohime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Slow Burn, Spoilers, a lot of characters that i probably forgot, but no explicit sex scenes, slight nsfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naohime/pseuds/naohime
Summary: “From the four corners of the earth comes the magpiesOne for sorrow,Two for mirth,Three for a funeral,And four for birth.Queen, wanderer, keeper, diviner.Through their union will summer return."Between an exiled noblewoman, a coquette with a dark secret, a runaway skinchanger, and a two-faced whore, how will they convince the rivaling armies to relinquish their animosity and unite against a common adversary?They all walk different roads, never crossing the same path, but they will unknowingly reach the same destination.*NOTE*: This story follows the plot line of the books. There are very limited differences between the book and show, therefore fans of either can read this.





	1. Visehna I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to read my story! I love ASoIaF, and so I just HAD to jump on the OC bandwagon. While the events in the book do take place throughout this story, the focus is on my OCs and their development. That way you won't get repeated scenes and dialogue, and you'll be actively interested in the new content, rather than recycled scripts.
> 
> Feedback and critiques are welcome and appreciated, as well as spreading awareness about this story. I've been working on this since maybe January? I have an outline of the chapters, and some of them are already written (albeit out of order). I will not be having a set schedule for updates; in the past that has never worked and has only served to stress me out. I want to provide the best chapters that I can, and taking my time is the best way to do that.
> 
> You will not being seeing any favorite characters until chapter 2, which is on its way.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy my story :)

Golden bars of light penetrated the white drapes of her window and seared her eyes, waking her with an unpleasant burning red in her vision. Visehna cracked her eyes open, shielding them with the back of her hand, and was reminded of the night prior by the crimson blemishes staining the linen. The sight made her starkly aware of her sore legs and aching body. Visehna allowed her head to slump to the side where her new husband lay against her. The air was heavy with the stench of sex, bodily fluids, and Jaeyrio’s perfume, making for a nauseating combination.

Visehna slipped out of bed—careful not to wake Jaeyrio from his deep slumber—and shivered at the cold marble. She retrieved her wedding gown from the floor and pulled it over her head. Unfortunately, in his zealous haste to get to her, Jaeyrio had torn the fabric from the bodice down the side. Visehna sighed. _I’ll ask Helesa or Shiraya to mend it._

The curtains fluttered and whispered, tickling her skin as soon as she opened the window. She relished the crisp air and breathed deeply. It was refreshing compared to the repugnant smell in her room. Daegor had warned her intercourse would not be as remarkable as she had dreamed, but he had not prepared her for the aftermath.

Helesa and Shiraya were already awake, as expected. Their room was affixed to hers for convenience, but smaller and less opulent. Visehna surmised that it was intended as a nursery.

Both handmaids were slaves that her father had bought from Myr four years prior, but bestowed them to Visehna due to her coming-of-age. Helesa had been a gawky nine-year old Braavosi with dark, hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Her eleven-year old captive, Shiraya, was collared and branded, customary among Myrish slaves. Presently, they were considerably healthier. Helesa had taken to Lysene culture and started curling her light brown hair. She also wanted to experiment with dyes for her hair but could not afford any. Although Visehna offered powder to cover up her markings, Shiraya refused. The brand below her eye marked her dusky skin to this day. Shiraya seemed more content with preserving her Myrish tradition and status, including her cropped hair.

“Lady Visehna,” Helesa greeted, blushing at Visehna’s disheveled clothes. “I will repair that for you.”

Visehna stripped herself of her attire and Helesa took them from her. “Thank you. Shiraya, prepare a bath for me. I am meeting with my good-sister this morning.” It was her uniform routine, but it felt unusual now that she was a married woman.

Helesa and Shiraya were scrubbing her body and washing her hair when Jaeyrio entered the washroom, still naked and running a hand through his unkempt platinum hair. He smiled upon seeing Visehna and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, completely unlike what he had been the previous night.

“Good morning, my love,” he said. “You are radiant as ever.”

“As are you,” replied Visehna. She could sense the discomfort of Helesa upon seeing her undressed husband, so she dismissed her handmaids politely. Once they were gone, she stood from her bath, shivering at the goosebumps climbing up her legs and arms. As she wrapped a towel round herself, Visehna asked, “Would you care to break fast with me? Phyrise will be there.”

“Would that I could, dear one, but I have urgent matters to attend to.”

_Slavery_. He shared the profession with her father, which was how they had met. The Naerins were a very powerful family in Lys, and their control stretched to Volantis and Qohor, it was rumored. Jaeyrio’s father was even one of the magisters who ruled Lys. Baeselor spent many hours lavishing Jaeyrio with exorbitant gifts and boasting of Visehna’s beauty and intellect. Jaeyrio ultimately agreed to meet with Visehna, and when he did, he declared that a wedding be organized forthwith. Within a fortnight their grand marriage was arranged and the noblest families of Lys were invited. It was a resplendent ceremony and they were married by Taeyana, one of the red priestesses. Her father did not support the decision, but conceded upon Jaeyrio’s insistence.

“Anything for my bride’s happiness,” Jaeyrio had proclaimed. Every day leading up to their wedding he brought a new gift to Visehna and would repeat those words.

“Of course. May R’hllor light the fires of wisdom within you.” Visehna craned her neck and kissed his chapped lips. “I will see you at supper then.”

Helesa and Shiraya returned upon her summon. They pulled aside the curtain, allowing the daylight to warm Visehna’s beaded skin. Her bath was nestled beneath a canopy in the corner of her terrace overlooking the gardens of their estate. Visehna had requested this particular room, as she loved the trimmed shrubs and lush verdure. The view from her balcony enabled her to scan the hedge maze and follow the myriad of paths that led to the large marble fountain in the middle. Three carved statues depicted a young girl, a teenaged boy and a tall man in a compact cluster, each holding a jug that spouted water. These sculptures portrayed Visehna, her brother Daegor, and her father Baeselor when they had first moved into the manse seven years prior. It seemed they had not yet been cleaned this morning, for a fair amount of bird shit dribbled down the adolescent Visehna’s face.

_Still a pleasant sight_ , Visehna thought as she inhaled the crisp breeze. A trace of saltwater perfumed the air, carried from the sea on the horizon. The Agnaeris estate was positioned on a cliff overlooking the ocean, but nowhere near the foul odor and uproarious tumult of of the Lysene galleys and sailors.

“What would you like to wear today, milady?” Shiraya asked.

“My lilac dress, if you please.” The light hue would accent her violet eyes and disclose her newly married status. Colors were symbolic among Lysene nobility and apprised others of status. Soft pastels were reserved for married men and women. Vivid raiment attracted notice and indicated availability for wedlock.

“As you say.”

It was a wedding gift from Daegor and Phyrise, as she would have to replace her wardrobe of vibrant garments. Shiny pearls fringed the hem of her dress and the sleeves, reflecting any light that fell upon her to replicate the sparkling of the sea. Myrish lace garnished the neckline and waistline. Whereas her previous collection was gaudy and ostentatious, it did not have ornate adornments. The embellishments represented a new age and her entrance into a classier period of her life.

Shiraya fastened a diaphanous shawl to Visehna’s shoulders. The lavender fabric glittered with the slightest movement. Coincided with the pearls, Visehna’s entire figure shimmered whenever she moved.

“Lady Phyrise will be pleased to see you in this,” remarked Helesa as Visehna stepped into her matching shoes, a pair of silk slippers with silver trimming along the sides and curling around the toes.

“You look beautiful,” Shiraya added.

“Only with your assistance, loves,” Visehna said. “Rest today. You worked tirelessly last night.” They appeared reluctant to do so, but eventually conceded due to Visehna’s stern expression. Before departing her room, Visehna patted a fragrance along her neck, wrists, and chest.

The estate possessed two dining halls; one for a copious number of guests and one reserved for the family. The latter was her destination, and when she arrived, Phyrise was already seated at the marble table. Her silver-gold hair, distinctly similar to Visehna’s, was curled to frame her heart-shaped face. No matter what angle one looked at her from, her nose was always upturned, and her blue eyes were sharp and alluring. Phyrise was rumored to be related to Shiera Seastar, the most beautiful woman of the Seven Kingdoms. Much the same as Jaeyrio, Phyrise Orlyris was a Lysene noblewoman. She married Daegor seven years prior, shortly after they moved into the manor, and bore him two children within two years. Despite being five years older, Phyrise insisted that the two of them meet once a week to bond as good-sisters. That custom became gradually harder to maintain as Saeressa and Maenyx demanded her attention, but they managed to preserve it.

“ _Sȳz ñāqes, mandia_. You are as radiant as the sunrise.” Phyrise stood and embraced Visehna to kiss both eyelids as an affectionate greeting. When Phyrise had first met Visehna, their language barrier prevented them from communicating; Phyrise was unversed in the Common Tongue. Though she spoke it now, she retained her lilted, melodic accent that was rife among Lyseni. “We must go into town and flaunt your beauty.”

Visehna giggled and sat at the table. A meal of smoked anchovies, thick stew, and spiced wine to dunk her bread in was presented to her by one of the servants. “ _Kirimvose_. You are kind to say so. Before we browse the marketplace, I must visit Taeyana and thank her for the wedding. She had seen in the flames of my marriage and my happiness.”

“As you wish.” Visehna could see the disapproval on Phyrise’s symmetrical face. None in her family approved of her faith in the red god. Baeselor believed in the old gods of Valyria and the Seven Gods of Westeros. Daegor only pretended to; in reality, he was faithless. His wife, Phyrise, worshipped the Lysene love goddess that decorated the currency. The only attribute the three shared when it came to religion was their distaste for the red god and his followers.

“Do tell me of your night together. Was he passionate? Gentle? _Māzigon, māzigon_ , do not be embarrassed!”

The first image that Visehna’s mind conjured was her torn wedding gown. She had been astonished by his abrupt change in demeanor. During the ceremony Jaeyrio was courteous and tender, treating her like the flower he regarded her to be. The moment they were isolated from their guests in the privacy of her room, however, Jaeyrio transformed into a wild beast, similar to the stories of the old children Daegor told her about. He ripped her clothing from her body, his mouth attacked any bare skin he could find. Visehna was so bewildered that she forgot to respond until Jaeyrio found her lips and pressed his hips against hers. Her memory was hazy and vague after that. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the wine or the sheer bliss that had overwhelmed her mind. It was likely a mixture of both.

“To be honest, I do not recall much of the experience. It is all a blur to me.”

“‘Twas the same for me, _mandia_.” Phyrise patted her belly affectionately. “Saeressa was our beautiful prize because of that night, and Maenyx arrived a year later. Perhaps it will be the same for you.”

Visehna smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Before, she had been ecstatic to finally mature into a woman. Once she flowered at fifteen, her father immediately hunted for suitors. She adored the prospect of marriage and love, but now that she had attained it she was suddenly anxious. She didn’t feel ready, and she certainly didn’t feel ready for children at the age of sixteen. However, if Phyrise could bear and raise children at fourteen, Visehna could certainly do the same.

They finished the rest of their meal with Phyrise providing the most conversation. Visehna did not mind simply listening; there was much on her mind. How she would adjust to a married life, what adjustments to make to her schedule and the countless letters she would have to send to the guests, thanking them for the presence at the wedding. What little she grasped of Phyrise’s chatter was that they would travel in a palanquin, to soothe Visehna’s sore body and allow it to heal.

The day was sunny and beautiful, as if R’hllor blessed Visehna with his light for her marriage. Phyrise’s handmaids—Wenorah, Ferelah and Doraya—accompanied them, walking beside the litter. Guards shielded them on either side and urged the slaves to press forward with threatening whips hanging at their waists. Phyrise insisted that the curtains be opened for the entire city to gaze upon Visehna. Visehna was grateful, not for the reason Phyrise would believe, but because it allowed her to survey the landscape as they made their way to the city.

Lys was only half a league away from the manse—far enough for them to be spared of the noise and stench, but close enough to see the dazzling lights at night. Being a port city there was an abundance of sailors, slavers and slaves. Many slave ships stopped in Lys on its way to Volantis. Visehna’s father occasionally left on expeditions for slaves, but he remained at Lys for the most part. When they had first moved to Lys, however, Baeselor was gone for most of the year, scrounging up as much money as he could. Now he was affluent and no longer required to travel as much.

“Daegor wishes for Maenyx to start his regal training, but he is merely a child! Not even six.” Phyrise was still tirading about her recent strains with Visehna’s brother. Their marriage had never been stable—that much was public knowledge to those of the Agnaeris estate, and even some within Lys. It had always been a political union, meant for nothing more than to increase their status and spread their power. Visehna worried the same would happen to her own relationship. “I understand that he is the heir of House Agnaeris, but he must enjoy his childhood. Otherwise he will be cruel and bitter. That happened to my great grandsire when he became a magister of the city.” Phyrise ran her fingers through Visehna’s hair, frowning in displeasure at its simplicity. “You do not curl your hair, yet you allow your handmaid to?”

“Helesa may do as she wishes. I have no interest in curling my hair.” Visehna knew the Lyseni were not fond of her straight hair, which they considered plain, but she preferred it.

“Saeressa has already begun curling her hair, and she is only seven. Daegor believes she is too young, but I tell him that it is Lysene custom. I myself started when I was much younger. We agree that she must wait until she has flowered to wear perfume, however. It would be too gaudy for her currently.”

Phyrise fell into another tangent, not noticing that Visehna had drowned her out once again. The white marble edifices and domed erections had become visible as Lys grew closer. Lys was composed of many intricate structures, even in the poorer districts of the city. Prior to the Doom of Valyria, it was built as a resort for the dragonlords, and nothing less than beautiful was accepted for the city’s capacity. Palm and fruit trees stalked along the walls, but they clustered in thick forests further away from civilization. Birds swept down to nibble at the delicacies produced from the trees, but fled as soon as their litter had neared the gates. Dorayah bent down, plucked a blood orange from the ground and brushed the dirt from its surface.

“We are stopping at your red god’s house, correct?” Phyrise grimaced. She didn’t bother to conceal her repugnance with an amicable facade as she did when addressing something she considered unpleasant.

“Indeed.” Lys was home to a plethora of religious cathedrals, but there was only one dedicated to R’hllor. One of the priests had relocated from Volantis, bringing with him his Fiery Hands and fiery face. Red priests from Volantis were raised as slaves and imprinted with a mask of flames that curled around their cheeks, chins and forehead. Taeyana possessed no such marks, as she hailed from Norvos.

The marketplace was busy in the mornings, leaving the alleys relatively empty. Their trip to the red temple was swift and straightforward. Ironically, the temple district was located near a street infamous for its pleasure houses. Taeyana informed her that it was to test the willpower of ministers and believers alike.

Taeyana explained, “If man truly loves his god, he will not succumb to the carnal pleasures that are intrinsic to human beings. That is the only way to prove absolute love.”

“What if they worship the love goddess of Lys?” Visehna had asked, thinking of Phyrise. Her family managed several pillow houses in the city.

“Then they must dedicate themselves to the art they worship. One cannot be faithful to religion and to another thing.”

Phyrise snapped Visehna out of her thoughts with a nasty curse. “ _Qrugh_. That pleasure house—” She indicated to it. “—is hiring some of our whores! They’ll drive us out of business at this point.”

Visehna glanced up. Even this early in the morning, one of the whores was leaning over the balcony, her buxom figure bare from the waist above. She waved at some of the men walking hastily towards the waterfront, where the temple district was situated. Most kept their heads down, refusing to make eye contact, but one of them fell victim to her catcalling and shuffled inside the pillow house. Phyrise screeched with umbrage.

“ _Bona līve_!” Phyrise whipped her head to turn her outraged gaze on Visehna. “Jaeyrio’s father is a magister, no? Have him tear this down immediately!”

“He is _one_ magister of many on the council. The brothel is also bringing in money for the city. What would be the gain to remove it?”

Phyrise had no answer, and so she dug her manicured fingers into the satin pillows cushioning their bottoms. Her anger was so potent that she did not remark as they approached the red temple. A dense crowd had already formed underneath the pavilion, which shielded the pyre that never went out. Taeyana claimed that the fire would only extinguish once Azor Ahai had been reborn. Both smallfolk and noblemen prayed to the flames, pleading R’hllor for the peace and prosperity that Lys had retained for decades. Once the inferno ceased, then they could find that their prayers were answered in the form of R’hllor warrior.

“Would you like me to accompany you, milady?” Wenorah offered, but Visehna turned her down. Her discussion with Taeyana must be private.

“Bring one of the guards,” Phyrise commanded, gesturing for one of them.

“I will be safe in R’hllor’s house,” assured Visehna. Phyrise scoffed, but conceded. “I will not be long. Please wait for me.”

As Visehna closed in on the temple, the prayers around the fire transformed into a chanted mantra led by one of the red priests. She identified him as the Volantese by his slave markings and the Fiery Hands at his shoulders. His arms were lifted, as if they were manipulating the tongues of fire that danced higher and higher. The crackling inferno overpowered his incantations, but Visehna knew exactly what he was crying out.

“ _Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path…_ ”

The worshippers responded when necessary. These prayers were usually reserved for the nightfires, when they thanked R’hllor for ending the day and besought him to return the dawn, but the Volantese suspected that he ought to be thanked for the morning as well. Visehna used to participate nightly until Baeselor set a curfew and restricted her freedom during the evening. He presumed that would mitigate her conviction, but Visehna merely adapted to her regulations by praying to the hearth in her chambers before going to bed.

The bright vermilion interior of R’hllor’s temple contrasted starkly with the white marble exterior. Everything within was carved of orange, red or yellow stone. Columns isolated a linear corridor on each side, separating it from the wide entrance hall. A sun was printed in the center, the round body a dark orange shade with wavy tails of crimson. The apex of the vestibule expanded into the sanctuary to accommodate its sundry visitors. Against the back wall above the shrine, a large stained glass window depicted Azor Ahai hoisting Lightbringer over his head. Wisps of flames emerged from the blade, composed of yellow glass.

Taeyana was the only occupant, preparing the altar for the sacrificial ritual. She donned the loose red robes of R’hllor, rippling with each movement. Her deep red hair was betrayed by her dark eyebrows that revealed their dyed nature. There were other red priests who lived at the temple, but Visehna favored Taeyana. She was down-to-earth and calm, unlike the zealous priests who declared that Azor Ahai was reborn. Until R’hllor himself revealed that the legendary warrior was returning, she refused to indulge in their ‘fantasies’, as she called it.

“Lady Visehna.” Taeyana had no need to turn around to identify her. The empty sanctuary echoed every step Visehna took, and Taeyana was particularly adept at memorizing the foot patterns of people. “R’hllor has blessed us with another beautiful day.”

“Yes, he has. And he has blessed me with a wonderful marriage just as you said he would,” Visehna told her, kneeling before the altar. Only red priests and priestesses could set their feet upon R’hllor’s holy spot, and even then they had to wear certain slippers to keep from tainting his house. “I came to thank you.”

Taeyana turned from the altar to face Visehna. She tugged her lips into a sly smile, crinkling her dark eyes at their corners. “Do not thank me. Turn your gratitude to the Lord of Light, for it is he who decides which unions will be bright.” The Norvosi strode from the altar. She did not need to gesture for Visehna to follow. “Your good-sister is here as well, I assume. It is the day after your wedding.”

Visehna wondered if she had seen Jaeyrio’s passion in her flames. “Yes. Phyrise wishes to bring me into the city to boast my new status.”

“Vanity is unbecoming for followers of R’hllor,” Taeyana warned. Her tone was careful and stern, yet carried a tinge of concern. Taeyana loved all of R’hllor’s children, even those who did not believe, which was why she was unperturbed by Baeselor and Daegor’s insults. “Phyrise Orlyris loves you dearly, but be wary of the path you travel down with her. ‘Tis not a good one.”

“Did you see that in the fire?”

Taeyana smiled vaguely. “No. I do not need R’hllor’s guidance to see the truth of that one.”

Visehna pondered on the red priestess’s words. Taeyana only divulged the visions in her flames when asked or when absolutely necessary. Perhaps she had not seen Phyrise in her flames, but had she witnessed Jaeyrio Naerin in them?

“My lady, may I ask for answers from your flames?”

“Only if I have seen them.”

“Have you seen anything of my husband? Of anything before or after our marriage?”

Taeyana was silent for a moment, face unreadable. For a moment Visehna feared Taeyana was thinking of how best to lie until she finally replied.

“The only thing I have seen of him is his love for you,” Taeyana informed her. “His love for you and for the profit you bring with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As there is not much lore about the Lysene culture, I decided to add a few tidbits of my own, such as the colors symbolizing marital status. Any other lore that IS canon I receive from the [ wiki](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Main_Page%22) for the book series: 
> 
> Also, the Valyrian language was just taken from a [generator](https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator).


	2. Cicely I

With only days remaining for the royal procession, hours were longer for the servants and further service was required of everyone. Additional hunting parties were dispatched to the wolfswood, the Great Keep was cleaned and organized to accommodate the more prestigious guests, and even Lord Stark’s sons had to suspend their lessons to assist with preparations. Cicely, who normally attended to Lady Catelyn Stark’s needs, was called to scour the Great Hall, as the number of available servants was sparse. When Cicely returned to her regular duties every night, Catelyn’s apprehension of the arriving party transferred to the young handmaiden.

As if to taunt the occupants of Winterfell, there wasn’t a day that passed without snow. Having lived in the north her entire life Cicely was accustomed to its harsh climate and cruel weather. The sundry supplies she carried to and from various parts of the castle, unfortunately, were soaked by the time she arrived at her intended destination. Septa Mordane chided her for their conditions but accepted them nonetheless. Every scrap of textile was invaluable for the numerous quilts they were embroidering. In fact, because of their value, Arya Stark was prohibited from assisting with the needlework. The nine-year old hardly protested, and instead took to following her half-brother, Jon Snow, around the castle. Cicely noticed that the bastard was less sullen when Arya accompanied him.

Many of the servants grumbled of the countless tasks at hand, particularly because none were fond of Queen Cersei or any of the Lannisters. Anera, one of the kitchen girls, declared that she was tempted to spit in the queen’s goblet amidst the reckless banter. While the others scolded Anera for her humorless jape, Cicely continued to clean the dishes diligently. She was one of the few, if not the only, individuals who did not mind the extra work. She preferred to be able to distract herself with her duties, and it enabled her to withdraw from dialogue she was uncomfortable with.

However, as much as Cicely was inclined to the chores, she missed watching Robb Stark spar with Jon Snow. Catelyn would ofttimes visit her son in his training, but stormed off furiously when he was bested by his half-brother. Before quickly chasing after her lady, Cicely recognized the merry laughter of the brothers as Robb was helped to his feet by Jon. Catelyn’s enmity towards Lord Stark’s bastard son was unmistakable to the inhabitants of Winterfell, and she made no attempt to conceal it from Jon himself. Cicely wished that she would linger just a moment longer to discern the affection between the two boys; perhaps then she would put aside her prejudice. With the absence of her son’s sword fighting, Catelyn instead occupied herself by praying in the castle sept as she was not fond of the godswood.

“I will be relieved once this whole ordeal is done,” Catelyn confided to Cicely one night. “As much as it is an honor to be visited by the royal family I do not care much for the distress it brings.” Since he had more time on his hands due to the cancellation of lessons, Bran Stark could be seen scaling the walls of the broken tower and the First Keep, something that nagged at Catelyn’s mind constantly. “Please, if you do see him, tell him not to climb. There is much to do without him worrying us.” Cicely balked at telling Lady Stark that her duties would prevent her from encountering Bran.

Robert Baratheon and his royal procession arrived a month after his letter of notice, and Jory Cassel was sent with an honor guard to receive them on the kingsroad. While Eddard Stark and his family waited outside the gates to meet him, Cicely and the other servants hastily arranged the final preparations for the grand feast. Cicely retrieved Catelyn’s dress from her mother, Ineya, who had laundered it for the evening. It was the first time since the king’s letter that they had interacted, and Cicely cherished the time with Ineya albeit short.

“These nobles demand so much,” Ineya muttered bitterly as she handed Cicely the periwinkle gown. Cicely was uncertain what had elicited such feelings from her mother, as she had never met nobility prior to their arrival at Winterfell. The Starks had always been kind to them, and there were rarely visitors due to the cold climate.

“They will leave soon,” Cicely assured her despite not knowing when the royal family planned to leave. Catelyn had mentioned Robert’s capricious nature and lack of austerity, though Cicely had no intention of relaying that to her mother. “Life will return to the way it was.”

“Gods let it be.” Ineya’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and dark circles had found their way underneath. Pity burrowed its way into Cicely’s chest. Cicely bid her mother goodbye, but not without urging her to rest before the feast.

Upon Catelyn’s return, Cicely greeted, “Welcome back, milady.” After fetching her dress, Cicely had changed the rushes, stoked the hearth and replaced the sheets to occupy herself. “Where is Lord Stark, if I may inquire?”

“Visiting Lyanna,” Catelyn replied curtly. She undressed and allowed Cicely to slip her gown on. As Cicely pulled the bodice over her breasts, Catelyn remarked, “You are not dressed for the feast.”

“No, milady. I have nothing suitable for the king’s presence.”

“I am certain Sansa would be willing to lend a gown if asked.” _If told to_ , Catelyn’s tone implied.

“Milady is kind, but I would much rather serve than be served.” The other housekeepers were affable with Cicely, but when Catelyn occasionally had Cicely join her at the dais she would receive nasty glares from them. Even though Cicely would not be allowed to join them at the dais tonight, she would much rather detract her mind by working. “It is easier on me.”

Cicely could see the disapproval written on Catelyn’s face, but her lady said nothing and discontinued the matter. Cicely groomed her rich auburn hair without a word. She had always admired the mature elegance of Lord Stark’s wife, a feature that had been passed down to her eldest daughter. With high cheekbones and slender fingers, Catelyn Tully was the embodiment of grace and beauty. Her fair skin, blue eyes and copper hair were a striking contrast to the muted hues of the north. Cicely felt ungainly beside the tall, lovely Lady of Winterfell.

Once she was dismissed by Catelyn, Cicely encountered Lord Eddard Stark in the halls and hastily curtsied to acknowledge him. He nodded in response. With hunched shoulders and weary eyes, Lord Stark had aged ten years since Cicely had last seen him a few hours ago. She wondered what had transpired to cause such a jaded image. Visiting Lyanna, she recalled, and Cicely’s heart grew heavy with grief for the loss of a family.

* * *

Cicely soon understood her mother’s distaste for nobles. Perhaps not the nobles themselves but the trouble they brought with them. Many of the soldiers leered at the female servants, and although they never acted upon it Cicely was quite uncomfortable by their ogling. The king boisterously interrogated each of the Stark children whenever he found one. Jaime Lannister swaggered about as if he owned the place, and his sister frequently groused about the north and its climate. Even the royal children were obnoxious; Joffrey taunted any small animal that approached, Myrcella gawked at Robb Stark, and Tommen kept asking any servant that passed when the feast would be ready. The only bearable visitor was Tyrion Lannister, who was polite and well-mannered, but his appearance repulsed Cicely greatly. She shamefully ducked her head when he neared her.

By the time of the feast Cicely suffered a splitting headache. Raucous laughter and uproarious voices rumbled throughout the Great Hall. Cicely found Jon Snow among the young squires, and her heart broke for him. Catelyn tolerated him at the dais, but it seemed he had been relegated to the back so not to offend the king. Jon appeared to enjoy his company, however, and discreetly fed his new direwolf, Ghost, underneath the table. The hair on Cicely’s neck bristled whenever Ghost was nearby.

King Robert, Queen Cersei, her brothers and the royal children had been granted seats at the dais, with each individual placed next to their respective partner. Whereas Robb courteously heeded Myrcella’s smitten talk, Arya disregarded Tommen completely and instead shoveled food into her mouth as if in a hurry. Sansa, whom Cicely mistook for Catelyn at first, was just as infatuated with Joffrey as Myrcella was with Robb. Joffrey seemed to be recounting a fantastic story with animated hands and facial expressions. The red-haired girl absorbed every word from his pouty lips and responded with the proper reaction.

Though she had distributed food at first, Cicely could not endure the wandering hands of soldiers. Her bottom had been groped far too many times for her comfort and she crammed herself into a secluded corner of the hall. She went unnoticed by the anxious servants running back and forth between the kitchens and tables. Absentmindedly she searched the hall for her mother but there was no sign of her head of dark curly hair. _Kitchen duty_ , Cicely concluded. Her mother was skilled at various homemaking tasks, and was therefore assigned a myriad of diverse duties throughout the day.

Needles stung Cicely’s head with aching tips, and she excused herself to the outdoors. Dusk had fallen and the only remaining light were the flames flickering upon torches. No one guarded the door to greet her. No servants bustled from one keep to another. It was absolutely silent, still, serene. Cicely inhaled the crisp, fresh air. As she tilted her head to catch some of the falling snow on her tongue, she spotted an enticing owl perched upon a gargoyle out of the corner of her eye.

“No more,” her mother had told her the last time she caught Cicely. “They will kill you, hunt you. A wildling is one thing, but a skinchanger is another.”

Cicely was cognizant of the animosity towards skinchangers and wargs in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stark might have permitted two wildling women to work at Winterfell, but Ineya was not willing to test his tolerance for a skinchanger. She had promised her mother she would no longer skinchange, but she often felt an itching urge whenever she saw an animal. Slipping into an animal’s skin allowed her to forget her current life, even if just for a moment. She needed that reprieve now more than ever.

Cicely carefully extended her mind towards the owl, gradual and cautious, so not to startle it and cause it to fly away. Its mind tensed at the invasion, but she coaxed it to grant her access. Gently and fluidly she weaved into its body and intertwined with its mind, and when she blinked she was atop the world. Peering down, Cicely saw her motionless figure illuminated by firelight as snow cascaded gracefully. Triumph swelled in her chest. She unfurled her ivory wings and took to air.

She stumbled in the air, unaccustomed to the delicate bones and sensitive wings. Cicely swept low to the ground while she fiddled with the owl’s body. Narrowly avoiding her own body, Cicely gathered up more confidence and careened upwards. If she had a pair of lips she would be grinning right now. Frigid blades of wind buffeted her face and ruffled her feathers with snow. This must be what freedom feels like, she thought to herself. She recognized the dilapidated tower as she ascended alongside the First Keep. Laughter rumbled in her lungs. If she flew high enough would she be able to see beyond the Wall?

Then she was plummeting. Falling, being pulled all the way back to the ground, back to her mind and back to reality. She recoiled at the sudden interruption and whipped around.

“Are you all right?” Jon Snow asked her. “You were just standing there in a daze.” But Cicely couldn’t look at him. She was flustered by the presence of his white direwolf pup, Ghost, trotting at his heels.

“I needed fresh air,” she squeaked nervously. Cicely managed to tear her gaze from Ghost to the grey-eyed bastard in front of her. “Was the feast overwhelming for you as well?”

Jon’s face darkened. “In a sense.”

The ambience oozed with an uncomfortable silence. A wave of roaring laughter startled Cicely and reminded her of her duties. Cicely cleared her throat to release herself from the suffocating atmosphere.

“I must get back to the feast,” Cicely told him. “Have a good night…” She dipped her head respectfully and scurried past the bastard of Winterfell. She felt Ghost’s sharp stare follow her into the Great Hall, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he sensed the traces of the owl in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please remember to leave kudos and a comment if you liked it. Cicely's chapters will follow more of the plot than the rest but her chapters will have original scenes and dialogue.


	3. Melleah I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's our third character introduced. There's one more but she won't appear for at least two more chapters.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter~

“The blood was on her sheets when we came in, milady. She has locked herself in the privy…”

Olira glanced nervously towards the door where Rosyn had isolated herself. Melleah sighed. Her sister had a bad habit of hiding from her problems, traditionally in the commode. She felt safer knowing that her troubles couldn’t reach her. Unfortunately, Rosyn would have to mature if she wished to be a wife and mother.

_That may happen sooner than later, after this,_ Melleah thought to herself.

“Fetch Maester Creylen. Tell him to bring something for her aches.” Olira nodded and rushed out of the room, taking the ensanguined linen with her. Melleah shifted her attention to the obstacle barring her from her younger sister. Rosyn’s sobs, though muffled by the door, carried throughout the chamber. It grieved Melleah to hear her beloved sister in such agony. “Rosyn. Please open the door.”

Deaf to her request, Rosyn’s whimpers persisted. Melleah raised her fist to knock, but Rosyn quietly answered, “...it’s open.”

The petite thirteen-year old girl had curled up into a ball, compressing the pain in her abdomen. Her golden copper hair—not dissimilar from Melleah’s—fell in untamed tangles and stuck out at odd angles. Faint lines streaked her cheeks, marking the trail of tears. Her distressed gaze examined her quivering fingers, whose tips were stained crimson. Rosyn’s smallclothes had been hastily abandoned on the ground beside an upturned basin exuding a puddle of water. The only thing covering her privates was the thin nightgown drenched with sweat. Rosyn’s semblance of demureness had all but withered away alongside any modicum of poise.

“You never told me it would hurt this much,” wailed Rosyn as Melleah knelt next to her. “If this is what it takes to be a woman, I’m not certain I want to be one!”

“I felt the same way after my first moon blood,” Melleah confessed, “but this is the hand you have been dealt. You may either remain in here, weeping and wailing, and forgo your betrothal to Willem. Or you may stand up, wash up, and learn how to cope with your new stage in life. After all, it will return every moon.”

Rosyn sniveled and swiped her rheumy eyes with the back of her hand. She smoothed out the wrinkles of her gown. Melleah helped the girl to her trembling legs, resting one hand on her back and clutching Rosyn’s in the other. Maester Creylen entered the bedchamber as the sisters shuffled out of Rosyn’s refuge. Chains of silver, yellow gold and black iron hung around his neck, dulled by the solemn colors of his maester’s robes.

“Lady Rosyn, I have brought some milk of the poppy. They will alleviate your cramps, I assure you.” He handed the goblet to Rosyn, who took careful sips of the drink. “Come to me if you have need of more. Your pain will last a few days.”

“Thank you, Maester Creylen,” whispered Rosyn.

“I will retrieve Olira. You require a wash, smelly one.” Melleah pinched Rosyn’s cheek affectionately, and her sister giggled. “I will see you in the dining hall.”

Olira had woken her from her deep slumber in the early hours, and so the cooks were just preparing the morning meal. Melleah soaked in the bath while her handmaids rinsed her hair and scrubbed her body. Her hair was slick with sweat from last night’s labor. She lifted her legs so that one of them could massage her sore thighs.

“I assume horseback was arduous, my lady?” questioned the young Lyseni servant. Melleah couldn’t recall her name at the moment. Free City inhabitants had quite difficult names for her to pronounce despite growing up with them in her hometown. “You have a bruise on your side.”

“Yes, Mistress was quite defiant. I think I shall rest tonight.”

Equestrianism was Melleah’s alibi for her nocturnal activities, but she knew there were certainly those who suspected its authenticity. Furthermore, her handmaids were ascertaining her true escapades, especially since she returned with marks that were not obtained from riding. However, she was not lying about this particular bruise. Mistress had thrown Melleah after Creylen startled her by materializing out of nowhere. The fall had knocked all of the breath out of Melleah, and a purple blemish blossomed where she had collided with a sharp pebble.

Once her hair was washed and an ointment was applied to the injury, Melleah was arrayed in a orange-and-blue samite gown with a plunging neckline to display her bosom. Around her neck hung a carcanet, lined with golden chain and various gems. Its apex accommodated an elliptical opal that glittered with rainbows whenever light shone upon it. It was her mother’s heirloom and her favorite accessory.

The dining hall was close to full when she returned, but her empty seat awaited her at the dais. The seat to her left was also vacant—Rosyn had not yet prepared herself. Presently, only Willem, Martyn and Genna Lannister were seated. The twins’ aunt prattled, no doubt relating to gossip, until she spotted Melleah slip quietly into her chair.

“Lady Melleah! Good morning to you, dear.” The buxom woman lifted her goblet in a mock toast. “Tell me: is what I hear true? Has Rosyn flowered?”

A deep blush exploded across Willem’s cheeks, and his twin nudged him with his elbow, teasing and guffawing. Genna shot them a vehemous look before focusing on Melleah.

Melleah sighed internally. It wasn’t that word traveled fast at Casterly Rock; it was that Genna Lannister knew everything. In fact, she was the first to figure out Melleah’s secret, but, oddly enough, she agreed to keep it. “Just as long as you stay away from my family,” she had warned. Melleah conjectured that the only reason Genna was so compliant was in order to maintain some hold over her.

“Yes, it is, but she will be here,” assured Melleah. The last thing Rosyn needed was her betrothed to find her weak and despairing. “As sweet as she may be, Rosyn is tenacious. Gods know I have experienced that side of her.” She smiled fondly. Rosyn was dear to her, no matter how frustrating she could be.

“Wonderful, wonderful.” Genna clapped her hands together eagerly—a little too eagerly. “That means she is ready for wedlock and childbirth!”

“Can we not talk about this?” Willem groaned.

“We’re eating right now!” agreed Martyn. “No one wants to hear about Rosyn pissing blood.”

Genna slapped her vulgar nephew upside the head, causing Martyn to nurse the injury. “How rude, Martyn! Rosyn is a lady, and you will speak of her with respect.”

Melleah was grateful for Genna’s interference. While Genna proceeded to reprimand Martyn, Melleah scanned the main hall for any sign of her sister. She raised her head when she caught sight of a mop of copper curls, but sunk back in her chair after realizing it was a servant girl. Melleah considered checking on her sister, but figured it was better to give Rosyn her time to cope with her developing body.

_I should lend her some of my clouts,_ Melleah thought to herself. _I’m not using them, after all._

“Should she ever require advice, tell her that I am available whenever she needs me,” Genna said, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. “I will be her aunt, after all.”

“I will make sure to do so,” Melleah said absentmindedly. While she was keeping an eye out for Rosyn, she was also searching for the twins’ father. “I heard that Robert and Cersei are traveling to Winterfell to visit the Starks.”

“‘Tis true, ‘tis true.” Genna motioned for a server, and shooed them once she grabbed another goblet. Melleah couldn’t help but admire her authority over others in spite of her gender. “Since Jon Arryn passed I can only surmise Robert plans to ask Eddard Stark to replace him as Hand.”

“Truly? I thought they had drifted apart after Robert’s Rebellion.” Melleah was only a young girl when the revolt transpired, but she remembered the aftermath vividly. The uproar in Dorne at the murder of Elia Martell and her children, the seething hatred for Robert Baratheon, the silent condemnation of Prince Doran at his refusal to enact justice. The raw emotion plaguing Dorne overwhelmed Melleah, but she could only comprehend her utter sorrow at Elia’s death. She had regarded Elia Martell highly, viewing her as the epitome of beauty and esteem, and to hear the graphic details of her grisly death left Melleah with a sick stomach. To this day her belly churned at the thought of Elia’s murder.

“Well, they had, but I suppose they can’t remain apart forever.”

Rosyn entered the dining hall with wary eyes and careful steps. She was adorned in a delicate emerald green dress that complemented her eyes. There were few dissimilarities between hers and Melleah’s appearance, their eyes being one of them. When Melleah was younger she and Rosyn were frequently regarded as twins despite being considerably older than her sister. Rosyn’s maturity—both physical and mental—contributed to that misconception.

“Good morrow, Lady Rosyn,” Genna said. Melleah ran her fingers through Rosyn’s hair as she sat down and smiled lovingly at her. Rosyn gave a soft grin in response.

“Lady Lannister.” Rosyn smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress nervously. Melleah followed her gaze to Willem, who was staring intently at his food. “Willem. Martyn.”

“Rosyn,” stammered Willem. Martyn snickered.

Rosyn coughed into her hand. “I heard you’re going hunting today.”

“Yes, we are. Father said he would take us out.”

It was almost painful to witness the uncomfortable exchange between Willem and Rosyn. Melleah grimaced internally but put on a smile for Rosyn’s sake. Her younger sister often turned to her for affirmation.

“Ah, Kevan! There you are. I have fantastic news!”

Melleah’s head shot up when she heard Genna greet her brother. Kevan Lannister bore the same golden hair and green eyes that his family was known for, although his hairline was receding and crows' feet had formed around his eyes and lips. Kevan’s quilted wool doublet fit snugly on his broad shoulders and thick waist. One hand rested at his sword’s hilt which clung to his belt and bounced against his leg.

“Genna. Perhaps we should speak privately of these fantastic news?” Kevan’s sharp tone and stern eyes illustrated the significance of his suggestion. His stature would intimidate anyone, but Genna was unabashed. She merely huffed and exited her seat. “Lady Flory. Will you accompany us?”

Melleah figured that if she was being invited, they would be discussing Rosyn’s condition. “Of course. And please, that title still belongs to my mother.”

“As you say, Lady Melleah.”

Kevan led the two ladies out of the dining hall and down the stone hallways of the Rock. When Melleah first arrived with Rosyn, she was astounded by the structure of the castle. Intricately carved out of the base of a colossal stone cliff, the Rock was dedicated to its house arms. It was rumored that it resembled a lion in repose at sunset, and they had even named the main entry the Lion’s Mouth. Melleah believed that the absence of the sun shining down on them would at least relieve her of the heat, but it was even worse than at Nymeria’s Oasis. The caverns and halls were dense with humidity, frizzing her hair and weighing her body down. Rosyn adapted quicker; that, or she simply gagged her complaints.

To make matters worse, most, if not all, of the rooms and corridors were crowded with people. Being home to House Lannister, nearly every individual of the family was located there. One couldn’t walk a hallway without encountering one Lannister and one servant. Even after having resided here for half a year, Melleah still got lost in the labyrinth that was Casterly Rock.

Melleah was glad she was at least spared from seeing the Imp daily. She had encountered him a few times during her stay with the Lannisters, and had visibly recoiled each time she saw him. His absence prompted her to ask one of the servants of his whereabouts, which was how she learned of Robert Baratheon’s royal procession heading north to Winterfell, the Imp supposedly tagging along. Fortunately, that rumor happened to be true.

“Kevan, how did you find out?” Genna huffed out. It appeared she was disappointed she was unable to inform him.

He answered, “The servant girls have been whispering of Lady Rosyn’s state all morning. It is difficult to miss their gossip.”

“If I am not being too bold, I presume we will be discussing what to do from here?” Melleah prompted. “I’m afraid I will have to consult my parents of the matter before making a decision.”

“Of course. I simply want to propose a few paths for us to take.”

Melleah knew that Kevan was taking them to the grand balcony overlooking the Sunset Sea, as that was where their meetings concerning Rosyn and Willem’s betrothal took place. What made the situation even better was that she did not have to approach Tywin Lannister himself and ask for permission to speak with him. She wondered why Kevan had pursued her, rather than waiting for her to bring up the issue. There were many things she wondered about the Lannisters, and most of those things went unresolved.

When they arrived, a pastel sunrise of pink, purple and yellow smeared across the sky. It pulled and stretched the thin clouds into wisps that formed odd patterns. The image brought her back to when Rosyn was just six years old, cradling a scraped knee, and Melleah pointed out all the different shapes that clouds could make to distract her from the pain. Rosyn was so enchanted by it that afterwards she begged Melleah to go cloud watching with her frequently.

“Lord Lannister,” Melleah greeted, dipping her head respectfully. If it weren’t for the shaved head and lack of a beard, Melleah might not be able to tell the brothers apart. However, Tywin Lannister’s eyes were hard and cold, holding some emotion that Melleah couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Lady Melleah. Have a seat.” As she expected, Tywin’s eyes traveled to the valley of her breasts, but quickly flitted upwards to meet her gaze. If either of his siblings noticed, they didn’t mention anything. “I hear that Lady Rosyn has flowered.”

“‘Tis true, my lord.”

“I wish to discuss our options,” Kevan explained, settling in the chair beside Melleah. Tywin, however, remained standing, as if to exert his authority over the three of them. “It was agreed to decide when Rosyn flowered, no?”

“I must say, there is only one option!” declared Genna. “Once a lady has flowered, she is ready for marriage. Why wait?”

Tywin countered, “Lady Rosyn may be ready for marriage, but Willem is not. He is still in training, and he simply does not have the maturity necessary for a husband and father.”

“Perhaps, but putting him in the role may encourage him to behave more like a lord. Lady Rosyn will adapt to her new life; Willem must as well.”

“Wedding him posthaste will not secure the results you seek, Genna. Look what happened to Emmon after you married.”

Genna snorted, evidently unperturbed by his comment. “Emmon was always like that; there was no saving him. Willem is young and malleable.”

“He still has squire training, which he is quite fond of,” Kevan interjected. “Allowing him to complete his training will accomplish what you desire.”

“Could he not do both?”

“My apologies, Lady Genna, but I agree with Lord Lannister and Ser Kevan,” Melleah stated. “A lady’s moon blood requires some time to get accustomed to. Rushing Rosyn into marriage will only fail and cause harm to her.”

“And how long will it require her to adjust?” Genna retorted. “I was married to Emmon after I bled.”

“Lord Emmon is seven years your senior, my lady. Rosyn and Willem are the same age.” Melleah turned to Kevan. “Ser Kevan, if I am not mistaken, I believe my parents would wish for them to wait and be of age.”

Kevan regarded her remark with a thoughtful nod. Genna, unfortunately, was dissatisfied with her response. “So we are to defer to their judgment?”

“You are the only one in favor of your ridiculous idea,” Tywin mentioned coldly. The malice lacing his tone caused a shudder to run down Melleah’s spine. “Might I remind you that it was Father who orchestrated the engagement you were unhappy with, and pushed the wedding as soon as you had flowered. We will not make the same mistake.”

“We will simply be asking for their input, Genna,” assured Kevan. “Lady Melleah, I will write to your parents. All I ask of you is to take care of your sister until we have decided what to do.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I would also advise you not to discuss this with your sister. As you said, she must assimilate to her new lifestyle, and I imagine that the prospect of a premature marriage is quite intimidating for a young girl such as herself.”

“That includes you as well, Genna,” Tywin instructed, turning his stony gaze upon his sister. “There will be no mention of this to anyone. Your gossip has already spread too far.”

Genna begrudgingly agreed to her brother’s command, but scarcely hid her contempt for the decision. After the two of them had been dismissed, Genna stormed off in a huff. She was boisterous and assertive but it seemed that she had no desire to oppose her brother. 

By the time Melleah returned to the dining hall most of the tables were empty and servants were cleaning the leftovers. Rosyn was waiting for Melleah, small hands wringing her skirts with apprehension. When she spotted her elder sister, Rosyn scampered to meet her halfway. Her eyes were wide and lips pressed together anxiously.

“Is everything well, Melleah?” Rosyn asked earnestly. She worried too much about little things. “Ser Kevan looked so serious.”

“Yes. We were simply discussing your marriage to Willem.”

Rosyn flushed and ducked her head. “Oh...so it is to happen?”

“Later rather than sooner, hopefully,” Melleah told her. “We cannot shelve the matter forever, and they won’t tolerate idleness from Father forever.” She clasped Rosyn on the shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Do not worry, Rosyn; you are doing fine. The marriage is my burden to bear, not yours.”

“Yes, Melleah,” Rosyn answered obediently. Melleah frowned, but did not allow it to linger for too long. “I...I must go. Septa Lelani is expecting me for needlework.” There were no other noble ladies Rosyn’s age, and so many of the activities she performed were alone. Melleah pitied her, but it was for the best. They couldn’t get too attached, after all. Melleah watched Rosyn hurry out of the dining hall. Between the two of them Rosyn had the more difficult expectations, but Melleah would never impose her position onto her sister. Rosyn was sweet and innocent; the role she played fit her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clouts are apparently what women used to absorb the blood from menstruation. If I'm not mistaken they were similar to diapers? Please correct me if I'm wrong.


	4. Visehna II

Baeselor was missing. The children were told their grandfather departed for work, but the adults knew the truth: Baeselor disappeared, and no one knew why. Half a fortnight after Visehna’s wedding, he vanished without a trace. Phyrise worried that the Usurper’s men had captured him, but Daegor assured her that the entire manse would have been assaulted if that were the case. That didn’t help to stay any of Visehna’s worries, however. At least if Phyrise’s assumption was correct they would have a place to start looking.

Daegor took over for his absent father. Until they knew the cause of Baeselor’s disappearance, none of the nobles were allowed to travel alone. The children required either Phyrise or Visehna and two of the guards to accompany them. Daegor did not want to raise panic among the Agnaeris estate, but Visehna wondered if taking such extreme precautions would not accomplish what he was attempting to avoid. She went along with it, however, and never left the premises without an escort.

At home, Visehna listened to the conjectures of the servants, and carefully eavesdropped on the gossip of the city. Some of the speculation was too outlandish for Visehna to possibly believe, such as Baeselor returning to Westeros to reclaim his lover. Baeselor’s animosity towards her mother was so strong that he refused to acknowledge her existence. The only stories she learned of her was from Daegor, and even he had to be careful not to be overheard. Whatever the reason for her father’s disappearance, Visehna hoped he was safe.

Although nothing of their daily lives had changed, everything felt different. Visehna attempted what her father would have her do, but it was quite difficult with the whispers running throughout the manse and the city. Without Baeselor, Visehna had no guidance.

“I’m sure he is all right, _ñuha jorrāelagon_ ,” Jaeyrio told her one night after filling her with his seed. “Baeselor Agnaeris is a shrewd man. Perhaps ‘twas a meeting he could not inform us about.”

Visehna desperately wanted to believe her husband. It would be so easy to disregard his disappearance as another one of his deals, but something nagged the back of Visehna’s mind. It prevented her from blithely ignoring the reality of her situation. Visehna considered consulting Taeyana, but she knew what the red priestess would say.

“I do not see in the flames what man wishes,” Taeyana would reprimand her with furrowed brows. “I see what the Lord of Light bestows upon me.”

Jaeyrio thought that nightly love making would take Visehna’s mind off of her father, but even after her husband succumbed to his exhaustion she would lay in bed for hours. She felt so powerless and wondered if they were truly doing enough to bring Baeselor back. Daegor sent out guards to question the city and attempt to track him, but what if that wasn’t sufficient? Was there a larger scheme at play? Eventually, even Visehna’s dreams were riddled with these thoughts, and she requested the maester to concoct her a potion that would stop her from dreaming.

Visehna found that talking about her father alleviated some of her anxieties rather than behaving as if he had never existed. She could find this relief in the form of Saeressa and Maenyx, or even her handmaidens. She watched her words carefully in the presence of her niece and nephew, but it was sweet succor for her apprehensive ruminations. Saeressa’s buoyancy uplifted Visehna’s spirits, and Maenyx’s determination to take over for his father was absolutely endearing. Sometimes, Visehna felt like she could be herself in the presence of her brother’s children more so than anyone else.

Phyrise, ever the older sister, insisted that Visehna focus on her duties as a wife. “Please your husband and care for the children. Well, perhaps you’ve no children to care for, but pleasing your husband will add that task soon enough.” She continued to flaunt Visehna to the public, a daily activity that Visehna soon came to find distasteful. At first she enjoyed having the attention of hundreds of Lyseni. Now, she merely had their prodding questions.

Every night, Visehna performed a sacrificial ritual for her father’s safety. She besought the Lord of Light for mercy upon her father, wherever he may be. Out of desperation, she took to invoking the Seven Gods at their temples, even in spite of the odd looks she received If they were real as her father believed, perhaps they would listen to the grave prayers of their follower’s daughter.

A month had passed since his disappearance, and the estate had returned to normal. It was as if Baeselor had never existed, and that thought terrified Visehna. She despised how easily he was forgotten, or perhaps Daegor simply didn’t want to look for him; her brother and father had never gotten along. For a fleeting moment, Visehna suspected that Daegor was involved in her father’s disappearance, but she quickly cast the thought aside. Though they might have had their differences, Visehna simply couldn’t fathom the thought of her brother doing such a cruel thing! Especially since he was aware of how important Baeselor was to her.

Visehna wanted to discuss about her father with the adults—Saeressa and Maenyx knew not of the truth and it had to remain that way—but she feared the response. Would they spurn Visehna’s attempts at answers? Would they behave as if he was simply away? Or, worst of all, would they reply with no concession of his existence? The manse may have recovered its regular schedule, but there was a ghost roaming its halls that no one wanted to acknowledge.

Eventually, Visehna could not bear the heavy burden weighing on her heart, and accepted Phyrise’s advice. _Please your husband and care for the children._ Visehna knew not of what else to do; she would have to do what was expected of her. It was what Baeselor would have wanted.

* * *

Soon, Baeselor escaped from her mind just as he had her life. Her constant appointments throughout the day certainly assisted with that, and Jaeyrio ensured that none but him were on her mind at night. With the guidance of Phyrise and their maester, Visehna learned what to do in her father’s absence. She went out in the city to advocate for her brother—as he was running for a magister’s position—then returned home promptly in the afternoon to support her good-sister in her duties at home. Visehna grew more confident in her own independence. She was a steadfast sister, a dutiful wife, and soon, she would be a loving mother.

It didn’t take long for Visehna to discover that she was with child. As soon as she reported to Phyrise that she had missed her moon blood, her good-sister boldly declared that she was bearing Jaeyrio’s son. “There is no need for the maester!” she insisted when Visehna mentioned Aeros. “This is something us women know. You don’t need a maester for that.”

Visehna visited Aeros just to be certain, and, just as Phyrise had proclaimed, it was the truth. However, in spite of Visehna wanting to confirm before informing Jaeyrio, Phyrise had went off and announced it to the manse. Visehna knew the surprise had been spoiled when Jaeyrio lifted her in his thick arms and spun her around after reuniting in their bedroom.

“Oh, _kirimves, kirimves_!” he exclaimed, laughing heartily. Jaeyrio set her down, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her passionately. “We are having a child! Or perhaps many; I am certain I filled you with enough seed to bear an army.”

Visehna giggled, dizzy from giddiness and from the sudden motion. “By R’hllor, I hope not. I do not think I can fit that many in my womb.”

“I will just be happy with you carrying my son, Visehna. I cannot think of a greater joy.”

Following the proclamation of her pregnancy, Visehna’s regular schedule was disturbed. Helesa and Shiraya were even more devoted than ever before, disallowing her from doing any tasks they deemed too strenuous for her. Visehna suspected that Jaeyrio had something to do with it. As much as she appreciated the additional attention, Visehna wished they would permit her some freedoms. Even Daegor, who usually promoted Visehna’s autonomy, was particularly strict with her privileges.

“But Daegor, it is a simple trip to the city,” she pleaded. She wanted to continue supporting his campaign, but he had nothing of it. “It is no different than before.”

“You are with child, Visehna. What if you fall from the palanquin?”

Visehna wanted to argue that the chances of that occurring were slim—and it had never happened prior—but Phyrise pulled her aside. Phyrise stroked her hair as she protested Daegor’s decision.

“My dear _mandia_ , he is only concerned for your well-being,” Phyrise soothed her. “He was the same when I carried Saeressa. Daegor was much more lenient with Maenyx, but that leniency has not transferred to after he was born.”

Though her treatment frustrated her, Visehna found great joy in the thought of becoming a mother. It was a wonderful thing to know that hers and Jaeyrio’s union would bring a child into this world. She had cared plenty for Saeressa and Maenyx as infants, but she desired one of her own. A youth of her own flesh and blood. Visehna did not prefer what gender it was; she only wanted a healthy babe to love and adore.

One thing Visehna was grateful for was the ability to continue visiting Taeyana. She was certain—almost fearful—that Daegor would use the opportunity to ban her from seeing the red priestess. Visehna wasn’t sure what Daegor despised more: the religion or Taeyana.

“They coddle me, Taeyana,” Visehna confided one day, holding a hand over her belly. It had not grown in the slightest, but Visehna could sense the life blooming inside of her womb. “No, I’m not even certain if coddle is the right description.”

“You are a doll, Visehna Agnaeris,” explained Taeyana as she tended to the flames in the chapel. Even from the pews, Visehna could feel the heat radiating from the pyre, bathing her in R’hllor’s tender warmth. “They love you, yes, but they don’t want their precious doll shattering.”

Visehna recoiled at the thought. Unlike Phyrise and the servants at the manse, Taeyana spoke the truth and was forthright with her convictions. That did not make it hurt Visehna any less, however. “Mayhaps. But even a doll must be allowed to play.”

“There are different types of dolls, my child. You are not the one you think you are.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Taeyana,” Visehna responded with furrowed eyebrows.

Taeyana turned from the flames with a unreadable smile upon her lips, the fire casting a shadow across her angular face. “Not everyone understands who they are at first. You are no different, dragon’s doll.”

Visehna prodded Taeyana for more information, but the red priestess refused to divulge any more information. Taeyana was tenacious, and Visehna gave up her attempts. Sometimes, Taeyana’s guidance helped bring light to a situation Visehna could not understand, but at other times, such as this one, Taeyana was just as obscure as the darkness she claimed to despise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, unfortunately. Hopefully interesting, nonetheless.


	5. Cicely II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one took a while to come out. I've been really busy since December, so I haven't had as much time to focus on my writing. I just hope that the end result is satisfactory!

“Milady...you must eat.”

Catelyn shook her head, glassy eyes fixated on her motionless son. “I’m not hungry, Cicely. Perhaps later.” Cicely set the tray beside her, but she knew she would only return to find it untouched.

Over a fortnight had passed since Bran’s fall from the broken tower. From the moment the maesters allowed her, Catelyn did not move from his side. She scarcely slept, ate, and bathed. Cicely was often forced to pursue the only person able to convince her to care for herself, her elder son Robb. While she was grateful for his success, she couldn’t help but feel useless. She was supposed to tend to Catelyn’s every need, and yet she couldn’t even persuade her lady to eat.

The only indication of Bran’s life was the slight rise and fall of his chest, barely noticeable unless thoroughly gazed upon. Underneath the sheets his legs were twisted at unnatural angles. Cicely recalled the grisly sight when she closed her eyes, as vivid as the day he had been found. Anera had been the one to discover him concealed underneath the foliage dotting the perimeter of the derelict tower. Cicely caught a glimpse of Bran’s ruined body as he was carried by Hodor and she had to swallow the bile rising in her throat. She knew she had to be strong for Lady Stark who would no doubt be distraught by the news. However, Cicely never expected her to be absolutely shattered by her son’s state. Catelyn was the most self-assured woman Cicely had ever met; it was rather jarring to see her as broken as her son.

Cicely sifted through her thoughts for a topic of conversation, but nothing seemed appropriate to mention to Catelyn. Instead, she chose to clear her throat. “Milady, if you need anything, you need only to call for me.” Cicely thought Catelyn hadn’t heard her, but the red-haired woman inclined her head to show her acknowledgement. With that, Cicely took her leave.

Robb Stark stood outside of Bran’s chambers, his loyal direwolf trotting up to him. Cicely stifled the yelp that erupted in her throat at the sight of Grey Wind, and curtsied to the young lord. “M-milord.”

“Cicely,” he greeted. Cicely startled, astonished that he addressed her by name. “How is my mother faring?”

Cicely cast a timid glance over her shoulder at the hunched woman. “She…” Cicely did not know how to tell the truth without insulting Catelyn’s honor. Robb understood from her silence, however, and heaved a sigh.

“Nevertheless, I thank you for your service to my mother,” Robb told her, offering a tired yet sincere smile. “She appreciates your assistance as much as I do, I am certain.”

“It is simply my duty, milord.”

“Even so, you have worked yourself harder than any other here since the royal family announced their arrival. You deserve a rest.”

Cicely’s brown eyes widened. “I do not mean any disrespect, milord, but I cannot possibly rest. There is still work to be done—”

“And there are others to tend to it,” Robb said sternly, brows furrowed. Cicely could recognize traces of Catelyn in his conduct. “You may serve us, but you must also serve yourself. My mother would tell you the same thing.” As if to lessen the severity of his demeanor he grinned softly.

“I—th-thank you, milord.” Cicely could feel the blood rush to her cheeks, and she ducked her head and curtsied to hide her embarrassment. She made as if to leave, but suddenly remembered: “Milord. Lady Stark has refused her meal again...” It was nothing new, but she did not want to leave Catelyn’s needs to chance.

“I shall speak with her. Thank you for informing me, Cicely.” Robb gave another smile and walked past her to knock gently on the door. Cicely heard him call out “Mother” before his voice was muffled by the door closing.

Cicely lingered in the hallway, bewildered by what had just transpired. Her lady was the Stark she most interacted with, and when she did exchange words with the others it was the customary “milord” or “milady” followed by a query for orders. She knew little of their dispositions apart from how Lady Stark spoke of them. To have Robb speak with her in such a firm yet considerate tone garnered a strange sensation within Cicely’s chest. She raised a hand to her breast and found that her heart was pounding.

“I suppose I shall rest, then,” Cicely murmured to herself. Her walk to the servants’ quarters was riddled with thoughts of Robb and his smile. So occupied in her own thoughts, she did not notice her mother approach, carrying a wicker basket of clothing. She must have had an odd expression because her mother asked, “Are you all right, Cicely?” Cicely startled, unaware of her mother’s presence.

“I’m simply tired, Mum.” Cicely paused, and before Ineya could press the matter she added, “I think I will lay down.”

Ineya gave a suspicious look in response but said nothing of her thoughts. “Don’t rest too long. We have a lot of work.”

Cicely thought back on Robb’s words and grinned. Once again her mother inquired into her rare expression, and Cicely insisted its lack of importance. When she continued walking she realized how light-headed she was; she felt weightless and free.

_What is this feeling?_ Cicely thought to herself, drunk with giddiness. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this—if ever.

The reek of smoke filled Cicely’s nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose. Cicely looked out the windows for the source of the odor. Scarlet bands licked the walls of the library tower, encasing it in a circle of fire. Fear paralyzed Cicely, rooting her to the floor, until a rush of wind passed her and she found herself staring at Robb’s back. Grey Wind galloped at his heels, yapping and snarling.

All thoughts of respite streamed from her head and were quickly replaced with a new task at hand. Cicely hastened to the burning tower. Even if she couldn’t go inside to put out the fire, she could at least tend to those who escaped. When she arrived, Gage, Farlen, and Barth were already heaving buckets of water at the fire while Turnip, Gage’s daughter, and Anera replenished the supply. Survivors were guided out of the flames by guards who immediately turned back inside to retrieve more. Clustered in a group, Maester Luwin tended to injuries.

“Cicely.” Luwin summoned her with a wave of his hand. “Take over my duties. I must fetch more lavender for these burns.”

“Y-yes, Maester Luwin.”

Luwin handed the lavender tincture and left Cicely with her orders. She and Ineya were often entrusted with curative duties if Luwin was indisposed due to their former lives as wildlings. Cicely was not as knowledgeable about the properties of the southern plants; she was much more familiar with the northern herbs. She resumed where Luwin had left off, pressing the extract into the burns.

The men succeeded in quenching the fire, although the same dreadful stench stung her nostrils and brought tears to her eyes. Cicely scanned the grounds for Luwin, but there was no sign of the maester. Amid her distraction, one of her charges hissed in pain. “My apologies,” Cicely quickly said. They muttered inaudibly, but Cicely could imagine what they were saying. She had heard these whispers her whole life. Eventually, she learned to ignore it.

“Milord!”

Cicely whipped her head around to the entryway of the library tower, where Robb carried out the last of the victims on his back. His clothes were charred at the hem, and a handful of his auburn curls had been singed in the heat. Cicely admired him in awe. He had the bearing of a lord, rushing into danger to save his subordinates and flaunting his injuries like a badge.

“How did this happen?” Robb demanded as he gingerly gave the person on his back to Alon, one of the guards. “Are there any casualties?”

“None, milord. Everyone made it out safely, albeit with a few burns,” Alon reported with a salute. “As for the cause of the fire, no one is certain. Perhaps one of the books caught fire from a candle.”

Robb took in the information and nodded. Cicely could see the contemplation written on his face. “Where is Maester Luwin?”

“Maester Luwin left to retrieve more lavender,” Cicely answered meekly.

“I see.” Robb brandished his arm in an imposing sweep as he addressed the crowd. “No one is to enter the library tower until it has been repaired. Much of the wood has been weathered by the fire. All those who have been injured, go to Maester Luwin’s chambers. Guardsmen, I want you to clear out the library tower of the books. We cannot risk another fire.”

As the throng of people dispersed, Cicely approached her lord prudently, lavender tincture clutched tightly in her hands. “Milord...you are hurt.”

“I am?” Robb looked down to study himself. “I suppose I am. Thank you for your concern, Cicely, but I will be fine. There are others who have suffered more than I.” Cicely was about to protest, but Robb’s austere expression deterred her. She shrunk back and bowed penitentially. Alon pulled Robb’s attention away with a query, and Cicely took advantage of the opportunity to slip away, shame burning her face. Robb wasn’t a child; he was a lord. She shouldn’t have been so insolent as to assume he needed her aid.

“Maester Luwin! Where is Maester Luwin?”

Old Nan came hobbling from the direction of the Great Hall, frenzied and delirious. The crow’s feet around her eyes cut deeper than usual. Robb calmed her with steadying hands on her hunched shoulders, and demanded, “Please, Nan, please calm down. Maester Luwin is at his chambers. Why do you need him?”

“Milord, I—it is your mother and brother,” she cried, clutching his furs with knotty, trembling hands. “Lady Stark and the young lord have been attacked by an assassin. He is dead now, but milady is in dire need of healing.”

Cicely’s face paled, and dismay seized her heart. If only she had gone to Catelyn, rather than rushing to the fire—Cicely cast the treacherous thought from her mind. Had she returned she would have been killed, and perhaps Catelyn as well. All she could do was thank the old gods that both Lady Stark and Bran were alive.


	6. Tally I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while since I updated. I've been busy with school. Ugh I'm so ready to graduate.
> 
> For those of you who follow my Tumblr or maybe you just saw it on there, this chapter is very similar to the first chapter of Unbroken. That's because the reader was based off of Tally, my OC. I'm not sure I'll remove it just in case people wanna enjoy it but it's discontinued now because I'm actually posting it from Tally's perspective lol.

Despite being a young girl of twelve—soon to be thirteen—Tally never cried. Not when she was backhanded by Ivarn, not when men shoved their hands down her bodice, not even when she was forced to press her face against the pillow as clients thrusted from behind. Not a single tear had trailed down her face ever since she arrived at Mole’s Town, enlisted to be a whore for the brothels. Tally had vowed to never cry or show weakness ever again. It was her downfall once; she would not allow it to happen twice.

“Kiyara! Illeyna! Look your best!” barked Ivarn to the clamoring crowd of whores. Kiyara, a black-skinned woman of five-and-twenty years, donned a transparent green gown that made the emerald choker at her throat sparkle even more. Illeyna was quite the opposite of the Summer Islander. With fair hair, eyes, and complexion, Illeyna was six years younger than Kiyara, yet she appeared just as elegant in her light pink robes. They were by far the most favored whores of Mole’s Town.

Tally had no idea why Ivarn was so anxious for Kiyara and Illeyna to look their best, but she did not want to find out why. When Ivarn required much from those two, he tended to expect much from the rest of the whores, and if they did not keep up with Kiyara or Illeyna, they would feel Ivarn’s wrath the next day which usually took form in bruises and marks. These had to be covered up, of course. 

Though she wasn’t the most popular girl at the brothel, Tally never spent a night without a man inside of her. Most of the clients—nearly all of them, in fact—were brothers or recruits of the Night’s Watch. They were permitted to satisfy their needs, in spite of the oath they made. A few young boys close to her own age paid for Tally, but there were older men who requested her as well. She supposed that when death was gaping from the other side of the Wall, the age of a ripe whore didn’t matter. When Tally lost her maidenhead for the first time she had been paid a whole golden dragon, which was more than what she normally earned. Of course, she didn’t get to keep the money; it went straight to Ivarn, the brothel owner.

Tally had hoped to sneak by Ivarn, simply wanting to prepare herself in her own chambers, but the stout man noticed her immediately. She swore that he was part dog, considering how well he could smell the fear on someone.

“You call that whorish?” Ivarn snarled. With one great motion, he shoved a hand towards her chest and tugged her blouse down, revealing the little cleavage she had. Tally had never been more grateful that she was an early bloomer; any later, and Ivarn probably would have thrown her out for her lack of breasts. “Benjen Stark is coming back from Winterfell, and I hear he has a batch of new recruits. You better make me some coin, otherwise you’ll find yourself chewing off your fingers for food!”

Whereas Kiyara, Illeyna and some of the more well-liked wenches were dressed in luxurious garbs—as luxurious as they could be for the north—Tally was forced to wear the same outfit she had worn since she had first arrived. It was a yellow corset that dipped to reveal the cleavage, though Tally preferred to cover herself when Ivarn wasn’t around. A dark green skirt, torn at the hem, was slitted at the sides to display her slender thighs, while tall boots laced up to her knees. She was required to wash it herself, or else Ivarn would beat her bloody and lock her in her room without a meal.

As Tally weaved through the groups of whores, she listened attentively to the gossip that passed their ruby lips.

“I hear he brought his nephew with him.”

“You mean Robb? Such a shame, that boy is destined for lordship.”

“Of course not. His other nephew...the bastard.”

Tally wasn’t too familiar with the north or its families. All she knew were the Starks, for they were notorious symbols of the northern land in Westeros, and her knowledge of them was quite limited. Just like many of the other whores, she received her information from her clients. The black brothers would pontificate to them what could not be said inside the walls of Castle Black.

The whispers followed her all the way until she closed the door to her chambers. Unlit candles littered the surfaces of tabletops, waiting to be kindled. Perfumes and fragrances permeated the room so strongly that it stung Tally’s eyes. It was one of the smaller rooms, but her bed was still comfortable. After all, it needed to please the client, and how could she do that if they were on a stiff mattress?

She sat in front of the vanity whose cracked mirror fractured her reflection. Tally vividly remembered the day that Ivarn hurled a ceramic cup at her head, resulting in the rift that she saw today. If Tally had ducked even a second late, it would’ve been her head that suffered instead of the glass. One of the whores had been able to snatch Ivarn’s attention away long enough to make him forget he was ever mad at Tally. To this day, Tally was incognizant to what Ivarn had been furious about.

Tally powdered her face enough to conceal the bruise on her cheek that was still healing from Ivarn’s strike a few days prior. It was fading, but its purplish hue was unmistakable. The only makeup she had to enhance her face was a light pink lipstick. Ivarn bestowed lavish gifts upon his favorites, such as dresses and makeup, while leaving the rest out to dry. Tally had given up a long time ago on pleasing him. Her purpose was to survive, not to satisfy some fat man whose fingers were so thick that his jeweled rings were permanently attached.

The thought of being shared among men due to her popularity caused a shudder to traipse down her spine. Tally much preferred her invisibility.

If there was one thing that Ivarn liked about her, it was that she could play the wood harp better than any of the other girls. Tally would pluck at the strings in the hall until one of the men paid Ivarn for her, whether or not it was due to her music. Ivarn tended to forget this talent, however, but when it benefitted him he rewarded her with warm pudding the next day. The prospect of pudding was the only thing that motivated her to do her very best.

Tally reached for the wood harp leaning against her vanity and tuned the instrument. Normally the strings would burn a novice’s fingers, but hers were calloused and hardened due to years of practice. Now, she barely felt the pain. The wooden harp was her only belonging; it had taken a lot of begging to convince Ivarn to allow her to keep it. Tally didn’t know what she would have done if he had tossed it in the fire as he had threatened. It was the only thing tethering her to her past. Without it, Tally would have forgotten who she was.

“Tally.” Tally turned to see Reila in the doorway, poking her blonde head through the threshold. “They’ve arrived.”

Tally followed Reila into the hall, which was already filled with Night’s Watch men and recruits alike. But their focus was not on their regular clients; no, Ivarn had ordered them to seduce Benjen Stark’s group. The First Ranger was not among them, as expected of such an honorable man, but his young boys were present, along with someone that even Tally knew.

“The Imp,” muttered Jacline distastefully. “What is he doing here?”

“Who cares?” Myriam said. “He’s a Lannister, and the brother of the queen. Surely he’s got money on him.”

“Maybe he’ll pick you, Tally,” Reila jested, though Tally could detect the thinly veiled insult. “You’d suit the ugly little man well.”

Rather than granting Reila and the others the pleasure of seeing how they affected her, Tally pushed past the taller woman and positioned herself by the fireplace, which was closest to the infamous dwarf. Though Tally had never seen him before, she had heard stories of his hideous appearance and now she could definitely see why. His mismatched eyes scanned the room lustily, narrowed below a thick set of brows. His bushy brown beard covered the lecherous grin tugging at his lips. His short legs dangled from his seat, but he had the bearing of a confident man. Tally had no idea how he accomplished such a feat. Seated beside him was a boy who could not have been much older than herself with black hair and matching eyes, who appeared exceptionally troubled—almost loathsome—to be in the brothel.

No matter how repulsive Tyrion Lannister was, Myriam was correct. He was rich. If Tally could entice him to her, Ivarn would shower her with praise for weeks. He was her goal, and Tally intended to achieve it.

Who cared whose cock went inside her? She was used to it by now. _I will just close my eyes and imagine someone else._

Tally began to play a tune that was taught to her years ago, yet it was still fresh in her memory. The lyrics passed her lips easily, allowing her to turn her gaze to the Imp. She caught his eye and twisted the corners of her mouth into a sultry smile. Triumph swelled in her chest when he returned it, and even pointed her out to his young companion. If she strained her ears, Tally could pick out the conversation.

“See her, Snow? She’s young, but she’s experienced. Those are the best kind.”

“How could you possibly know that?” The black-haired male grimaced.

“She knows how to play a man just like that harp of hers.” That statement only served to amplify Tally’s pride even more. Soon, she would saunter over and place herself in his lap, and he would be hers. Or, rather, the other way around. “Ah, that one is rather captivating.”

Tally frowned. She followed his gaze to where Kiyara poured wine from her flagon into the goblet of a brother of the black. The dark-skinned beauty giggled when he slipped his hand up her skirt, and she playfully swatted it away.

Tally ceased her song and ambled over to the pair, swaying her hips as she did so. The Imp tore his gaze away from Kiyara to look at Tally, while the boy averted his eyes bashfully. Placing her hand on the table, Tally leaned forward to display the valley of her breasts.

“M’lord,” she greeted, as any whore should of a lord. Or a client, if that was their preference. “It is an honor to be in your presence.”

“And a pleasure to be in yours. May I have the honor of asking your name, sweetling?”

“Tally, m’lord. Did you enjoy my song?”

Whores possessed their own language, flirting with clients through seemingly casual banter. Most lascivious men understood this, but it appeared as if the boy had interpreted her sly remark, if the growing blush was any indication. Meanwhile, a bewitched Tyrion Lannister was victim to her subtleties.

“Your tongue was marvelous. I’m sure that it is skilled in other aspects, as well.”

Tally giggled. “Would you care to try it out, m’lord?”

“Of course, love.” Tyrion gestured with a leisurely hand. At first, Tally thought he was motioning her forward, but when Ivarn waddled over to the table, Tally realized she had won him. Ivarn clasped his hands together, bowing hastily to the dwarvish lord, and sputtered out praise. “Good man, I would like to purchase this lovely girl for an hour.”

“An hour, yes, yes. But m’lord—” squeaked Ivarn. Tally could discern the greed swimming in Ivarn’s dark eyes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t forget who exactly had earned him this fortune. “We have other fine ladies who could suit your needs for a night…”

Indignation flared in Tally’s chest. She couldn’t believe Ivarn was attempting to swindle the Imp out of paying for her! His plot was obvious; if Kiyara or Illeyna or some other whore pleased him well enough, the Imp may be tempted to pay even more. There was nothing Tally could do about it; Ivarn would beat her later if she tried to protest.

“No, Tally will be perfect.” The dwarf reached into his coin purse and slapped a golden dragon on the table. Ivarn and Tally’s eyes widened to the size of the coin. She couldn’t believe that the Imp was paying a whole golden dragon for her. Golden dragons were usually reserved for deflowering new whores. “For my needs, I require a luscious young girl, such as herself.”

Tally could not help but flush at that statement. Even Ivarn seemed surprised, but he could not refuse a high lord, particularly a Lannister.

“A—As you say, but golden dragons…Tally is only worth three silver stags. She has already lost her maidenhead. You are paying too much.”

Tyrion barked with laughter. “Her virginity is not what I am paying for. It’s his.” He jabbed a small thumb to his companion. The dark-eyed male leapt out of his seat in shock. “Have fun, Snow.”

“Imp, I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

“Too bad. I already paid.” Tyrion clapped him on the back and gave a shove towards Tally. “Take care of him, sweetling, and be gentle. It’s his first time.”

No matter how much this Snow objected, the Imp would not listen and only urged him forward. Tally reached and grabbed his hand. She flashed an alluring smile at him. Whether or not that succeeded in tempering his nerves, Tally did not know. She turned her head forward and led him to her chambers. There was little to no resistance from her client. She wondered if it was because he was finally accepting of this or because he was too afraid to fight.

Once they were both within the privacy of her room, Tally faced her client and smiled sweetly at him. At a closer look, she could see that he was closer to her age than she had originally thought, maybe two or three years older. His tousled black hair fell to his shoulders, mussed by the frigid winds of the north. At closer inspection, Tally realized that his eyes were actually a very dark gray, but were darkened by the dim lights. He had a long, solemn face, but his youth was evident from his innocent behavior.

“Don’t be nervous, m’lord,” Tally soothed, though she knew not if he was a lord. Some clients preferred to be addressed that way. She extended a hand and stroked his arm. Beneath his ringmail, she could feel the taut muscles rippling beneath the skin. He stiffened at her touch, but he was polite enough not to pull away. Or perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to. “Tell me your name. That way I can know what to cry out later.”

He blushed at her remark. “Jon Snow. And you won’t have to do that.”

“A little nervous are we, hm?” Tally closed the distance between their bodies until her chest was pressed against his—rather, her chest was pressed against his stomach. For a boy of fourteen or fifteen, he was tall. “Don’t fret; I can massage those knots right out of you. Just lay down and—”

Jon nudged her hand and backed away. “Tally, my lady, I don’t mean to offend, but I’m not interested.”

_My lady. Does he think I’m some noblewoman?_ Tally twisted her mouth to the side. “What do you mean?”

“This goes against the oath of the Night’s Watch.”

“Who cares?” she snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “You haven’t taken it yet, have you? Besides, most of your brothers don’t seem to care about it, with how often they frequent this brothel.”

“Even so, I won’t sully my honor just because my brothers have.”

Tally sighed in defeat. There was no persuading this boy. His mind was set, and Tally doubted that seduction would convince him. “Then what do you intend for me to do? If you go out there without me fulfilling the night as promised, both the Imp and my master will be furious.” And Tally would surely be tormented by the other wenches for weeks on end for her failure to dominate a virginal bastard.

Jon pondered that for a moment. “Why not simply talk?”

“Talk?”

“Your duty is to satisfy me, correct? I wouldn’t mind a pleasant conversation.”

The young whore stared at him, eyebrows cocked in confusion more than irritation. Jon Snow was an odd man indeed, but if that was what he desired then who was she to deny it? A break from the regulars wouldn’t hurt, either.

“You are strange, Jon Snow. But who am I to judge you? I am only a whore, after all.” Tally dropped on the edge of the bed and leaned back on her hands. “Well? What is it you want to talk about? Do you have questions, perhaps?”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?!” he exclaimed. “But...you’re…”

“A whore, yes. And I’m almost thirteen!” protested Tally, scowling at the disapproval heavy in his words. “There are whores much younger than I. Don’t presume it’s such an uncommon thing.”

Jon frowned, displeased by her nonchalant reply. Most men did not care for her age, so why should he? His silent condemnation vexed Tally.

“What about yourself, Jon Snow?” Tally snapped, barely able to contain her ire. “You can’t be much older than me, and you’re joining the Night’s Watch.”

“I’m fourteen. Most boys join at this age, some even younger.”

“And some girls become whores at my age. There’s hardly a difference between our situations, only that you’re training to handle a sword and I’m training to handle a different kind of sword.” Tally laughed; Jon reddened. The crimson hue stood out upon his pale cheeks. “Weren’t you the one who requested this conversation? I happen to be enjoying myself, so thank you for that.”

He sighed. “And I have to spend the whole hour with you?”

“You have your little lord to thank for that. Ivarn doesn’t accept take-backs.” Tally signaled behind her, towards the neat bed she sat on. “You can sleep, if you’d like. I promise I don’t bite, unless you want me to.”

Jon was immune to her flirtatious teasings now; he merely gave a disgruntled look as he conceded and sat beside her. Rather than laying back, however, he twisted to face her and pulled his leg up to his chest. His expression softened and molded into something more inquisitive, curious. Tally was almost unsettled by the change of heart.

“Do you enjoy this lifestyle?” he asked quietly.

Tally shrugged. “Doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. It’s necessary. You of all people should understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Night’s Watch is hardly pleasant. I’ve heard so from your ‘honorable’ brothers. But it’s needed, right? To protect us from the wildlings,” Tally said. She examined her fingernails, which were caked with dirt; it seemed she had forgotten to scrub them earlier. Tally shoved her hands into the folds of her skirt to hide her uncleanliness. “They need motivation to keep from desertin’, so they come here for some satisfaction and comfort. That’s why it’s necessary.” Tally snorted. “Funny, huh? Whores and black brothers workin' together to save Westeros.”

“You think so?” asked Jon. Tally nodded. “You’re peculiar, Tally.”

“I could say the same about you, Jon Snow.”

Jon smiled, the first time since Tally had met him. Though it was a foreign expression upon his traditionally solemn face, it suited him. _He should smile more,_ Tally observed, but it wasn’t her place to voice her thoughts.

“Since you asked me a question, ought I ask you one?” Tally pointed out.

The smile fell from his face into an inscrutable expression, and he averted his eyes to his feet. “If you want, though I hardly think you’ll find anything interesting.”

“Ohoho, we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” guffawed Tally. “Snow is a name for bastards in the north, right? So whose bastard are you?” Tally had a sneaking suspicion she already knew, but she wanted to confirm it to be sure.

“Lord Eddard Stark,” Jon answered, setting his shoulders back proudly. Yet Tally could see it written plainly on his face; he was bitter about his status as a highborn bastard. “I don’t know who my mother was, though.”

“Do you want to?” Jon nodded immediately. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t. Some people say it’s better to have loved and lost. Well, I say that’s rubbish. Why bother lovin’ if you’re just gonna lose ‘em anyway?”

“I just…” He was at a loss for words at that. “I’m just curious to know which woman was enough for my father to forget his honor.”

“Fair enough.” Eddard Stark was known for his polished, ironclad integrity. Whereas it was common for lords to have bastards, it was unexpected of Lord Stark to have one. What was even more queer was that he openly fathered Jon and offered his home to him. “Well, at least you have a home, right? Gettin’ opportunities that most bastards wouldn’t.”

“I suppose so.” Jon might have agreed with her, but she knew he truly didn’t.

Tally pushed herself off of the bed and turned to face him. “Wipe that frown off your face, Jon Snow. Brothels are a place for fun and smiles, and you have hardly given me either of those. C’mon, give me a smile!” She reached for his cheeks and pulled upwards, creating a lopsided, awkward smile out of his stubborn lips.

Jon shoved her hands away from his face. “Stop.” He uttered one word, but it was forceful. Tally tucked her hands behind her and sighed.

“You’re no fun.”

“I shouldn’t even be here. I’m going to be a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“That again?” Tally had finally begun to enjoy herself, but Jon’s reminder of his oath exasperated her. “We’re not ‘breaking the oath’ or whatever you were going on about.”

“But the fact that I’m still here—”

“Means nothing. We’re just talking. I can promise you that one of your future brothers is fucking a whore mindlessly in the next room.”

Just like herself, Jon was starting to lose his temper. He stood up from the bed and easily towered over her in spite of being only fourteen. “Why are you criticizing me for wanting to keep my oath?”

“You haven’t even taken it.” It took all of Tally’s willpower not to shout at the frustrating bastard. If she raised her voice or made it seem like they were having troubles, Ivarn would deprive her of food for two days. “And like I said, your brothers don’t care about it, so why should you? They’re just some words.”

Jon opened his mouth to retort, but a knock sounded at the door. Instinctively, Tally looped her arms around Jon’s neck and dipped her face in the crook of his neck. She felt Jon stiffen underneath her, but he did not nudge her off. Out of the corner of her eye, Tally could see Myriam smirking.

“Is the hour up?” Tally said, grateful to be rid of this annoying ‘honorable’ bastard. She pulled away and gave the sweetest smile she could procure to Jon Snow. “I really enjoyed our time together, m’lord. Truly. Feel free to choose me the next time you visit.” 

Jon politely inclined his head, then followed Myriam out of Tally’s chambers. Once the door was closed, Tally allowed herself to fall onto her bed and buried her face into the mattress. Her infuriated scream was thankfully muffled by the bed. Tally rolled onto her back after she was relieved of her anger and stared up at the transparent canopy hovering above her head.

_What a pompous jerk! Going on about “honor” and all that. I bet he’ll be whoring around in a few weeks’ time, just like the others._

The sound of giggling and squeals through the walls reminded Tally of her duties. Tally dragged herself out of bed and returned to the main hall, casting Jon Snow and the Night’s Watch far back into the recesses of her mind.


	7. Visehna III

The croft was littered with tables, chairs and all sorts of people from as far as the Summer Isles to the Shadow Lands. Jaeyrio had insisted on inviting the entire city, pauper and noble alike, to celebrate the first moon of Visehna’s pregnancy. The furniture, garnished with ornate silk, were pushed uncomfortably close together in order to accommodate the myriad guests. However, none were sober enough to complain as they had taken to the wine immediately subsequent to its arrival. It seemed that most of them saw this as an opportunity for a free meal. Visehna knew she should not be insulted—some of these people she had never seen in her life—but anger swelled in her chest at their audacity.

Similar to their wedding, Visehna and Jaeyrio were seated upon a dais with a full view of the festivities. Daegor, Phyrise, and their children sat on Visehna’s right while Jaeyrio’s father and mother sat to his left. Visehna could remember when five years previously she had sat between her brother and father during the celebration of Maenyx’s conception. It had been considerably less crowded, but that was because Daegor preferred modest gatherings to Jaeyrio’s ostentatious displays. Even today Visehna saw the irritation hidden cleverly behind his seemingly pleasant facade. She had seen it many a time when confronting him after an argument with their father. Daegor would equip that same smile and tell her simply, “Nothing is the matter. Now, why don’t I tell you more about the dragons?” He knew her fascination with the dragons of Valyria that supposedly stayed at Lys with their masters on holiday. Back then Visehna thought nothing of the distraction. She wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to let the discussion vanish.

Perhaps it was because of Daegor’s propriety that she was unprepared for the spectacle before her eyes. At Phyrise’s gestation ceremony a troupe of mummers entertained them with jovial music and theatrical performances while they awaited the feast. Daegor must have substituted them for the original act offered to them. The temple priests and priestesses of the love goddess approached the dais in their gaudy cloaks. A pin of a nude woman fastened at the shoulder made it so that the robe could be easily removed.

“Ah, they have arrived!” Jaeyrio declared, sweeping an arm to address them.

Upon Jaeyrio’s approval, the temple leaders unclasped their pins and allowed their cloaks to fall to the ground. Visehna resisted the urge to cover her eyes for she knew it was improper. However, a sickening coil curled in her gut as she anticipated what was to come. Within moments, the five priests and priestesses were tangled together in a chaotic orgy. Visehna couldn’t identify which genitalia belonged to who nor did she wish to. Jaeyrio and Phyrise, no doubt accustomed to this tradition, enjoyed it shamelessly. Saeressa and Maenyx were engrossed by the display and kept prodding their mother for answers. Daegor discreetly kept his eyes to his plate. Visehna wished she could have done the same but she knew the audience was watching hers and Jaeyrio’s reaction. After all, the presentation was for them.

“Darling, why…why are they…” Visehna couldn’t find the words to describe this. She wasn’t certain if there was a way to do so.

Jaeyrio leaned over and nibbled her ear, supposedly drunk on the atmosphere. “At a gestation ceremony, we are reminded of the love goddess’ gift of sex for without it we would be unable to reproduce.”

“I-I see.” _Reproduce? Is that all he sees it as?_ Visehna felt uncomfortable at the phrasing and instead decided to focus on one of the priestess’ feet.

“Pay close attention, my love. Perhaps we may learn from them.”

What Visehna had watched seemed far too complex for either of them to attempt, but she gave a strained smile and nodded to appease her husband. It was his culture; she couldn’t fault him for that. Visehna only wondered how she had lived in Lys since infancy yet knew so little about their traditions.

When the orgy came to a rather loud and sweaty end, the temple leaders were met with uproarious applause. Visehna politely clapped and tried to keep her nausea from showing on her face. As the priests and priestesses dressed themselves, the meals were brought out to the dais. A spread of roe deer, pig and sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar and covered with powdered ginger were the first to greet Visehna. Stuffing made from minced loin of veal, hard boiled eggs covered with saffron, and flavored with cloves arrived with two enormous pies. The lighter cuisine included a red-and-white jelly, plums stewed in rosewater, and preserves consisting of fruits and sweet pastries. Visehna didn’t notice her full wineglass until she nearly knocked it over while making room for the food.

As custom dictated each member of both families offered their good wishes before they were allowed to dine. Once a piece of each dish had been taken, only then could the guests receive their fair share. Maenyx and Saeressa were brief yet articulate in their speeches. Visehna suspected they were instructed carefully by their mother. Unlike her children, Phyrise gave a extensive soliloquy expressing her utmost gratitude that the love goddess chose to bless them with a token of their union. She only stopped when Daegor interrupted her with a firm hand on her elbow. A frown pinched her lips and she begrudgingly sat down.

Daegor smiled warmly at Visehna. “Dear sister, I am glad to see you growing into the woman I knew you were meant to be. Soon, you will be a mother, too. I know you will succeed in your new duties.” His words were succinct but candid, just like the one who spoke them. Visehna could hear the disapproving murmurs of her husband’s parents at the lack of mentioning the love goddess. Daegor sat down without reaction to the whispers.

Visehna stared at Jaeyrio’s father and mother as they each took a turn to speak, but their words passed incomprehensibly through her ears. She tried to listen attentively as was expected of her, however her mind was elsewhere. Somewhere she couldn’t quite determine. Her reverie was broken when applause signalled the beginning of the feast. Jaeyrio began eating without reservations. His appetite for food was as abundant as his lust for sex.

Jaeyrio noticed that Visehna hadn’t touched her food once and fed her himself. She accepted the gesture, albeit reluctantly. Whatever touched her tongue had no taste, no flavor. Visehna chewed thoughtlessly.

“My love, what is the matter?” he asked, squeezing her chin between his fingers.

She tugged her lips up convincingly. Daegor was not the only Agnaeris skilled with smiles. “Nothing is the matter.”

Content with her answer, Jaeyrio returned to his celebration. He lifted his cup in a toast and shouted something Visehna couldn’t hear. Was this emptiness what Daegor had felt when Visehna forgot about his troubles? She risked a glance to her side. Daegor rested his face by drinking from his goblet. Phyrise fussed over Saeressa’s hairnet which had become lopsided. Maenyx was the only one of the four who was appreciating the food. When her nephew caught her staring at him, he grinned and waved. This time, Visehna smiled sincerely.

There was a chair missing.

* * *

Even when the ceremony had officially finished with the feast, Visehna’s duties had not ended. She and Jaeyrio waited at the gates to dismiss every guest with their gratitude. Some spent the opportunity to dote on the young Agnaeris, nipping her cheeks and patting her belly. Then they would move on to Jaeyrio and assure that he would be a superb father before patting his hand. Others acknowledged them with a polite nod, as clearly they were only there due to Jaeyrio’s status. The many who came for the food left without a glance at Visehna or Jaeyrio. Her husband, no longer in a lucid state of mind, was unbothered by their dismissive attitudes. He instead kept a firm grip on Visehna’s hips, his fingers insinuating his desire to be elsewhere.

The sun dipped below the horizon, spotting the gaps of the trees with a vivid orange. Visehna’s eyelids fluttered drowsily. A throng of people remained in the yard, still waiting to be dismissed by the couple. Jaeyrio’s impatience urged him to allow his fingers to wander in daring locations in between the departing guests. Although his advances were tempting, Visehna knew it was improper and did her best to convey her demurral by shifting her body away from his hand.

There was a sprinkling of remaining guests when Taeyana approached Visehna. Visehna did her best to maintain a passive expression as she respectfully addressed the red priestess. Since the gestation ceremony was a tradition of the love goddess, Taeyana’s presence was an insult to those who celebrated. However, Jaeyrio had invited the entirety of Lys and therefore she was welcome.

“R’hllor’s blessings,” Taeyana said with a small smile.

“Thank you,” replied Visehna. “Taeyana, may I ask something?”

“Quickly, dragon’s doll. Your guests are apprehensive by my presence.”

Ever since their last interaction, Taeyana had not called Visehna by her name. It bothered her, but she was too afraid to correct the priestess. “Have you seen anything in the flames of my father?” It was the first time in two moons that Visehna had even mentioned her father, and she suddenly felt aware of the eyes watching them carefully. She wondered if they thought her insane for thinking about a lost cause.

“I only see what R’hllor wants me to see.” Taeyana frowned, displeased by Visehna’s request. Discerning the flames was a gift from R’hllor not to be abused. Visehna had asked before regarding Jaeyrio, but Taeyana had not seemed troubled by it. This time she was affronted. Perhaps she had looked but found nothing.

“I see,” Visehna said. “Then perhaps I could learn to discern the flames. Is it possible that R’hllor wishes for me to find my father?”

“Absolutely not.” Visehna flinched at the sudden fury in Taeyana’s once velvet tone. Though nothing in her expression hinted at her anger, it was the subtle inflections in her voice that tipped Visehna off. “Discernment requires years of training, and even then our readings may be false. You wish to learn for your own purposes. R’hllor only reveals to those who wish to serve him. Instead, you should focus on raising the child that He has blessed you with.”

Visehna shrunk into Jaeyrio’s side. Her husband was unperturbed by the exchange; he was too inebriated to fathom their discussion. However, the physical contact encouraged him to grasp her bottom.

“Yes, Taeyana. You’re right. Forgive me.”

Taeyana turned to leave, but cast a final glance at Visehna. “‘Tis not me you should be asking forgiveness from.”

Her crimson cape billowed behind her as she left with her head and shoulders high. Visehna watched after her until the next guest, a sailor, tapped her on the shoulder. She smiled and said something she couldn’t hear, but the sailor was content with her response. Taeyana was correct. Visehna must focus on what she had at the moment rather than what she had lost. She placed a hand on her belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I created some traditions for the Lysene people.
> 
> The next chapter is already written, so it should be up soon!


	8. Tally II

The Wall was a tall, looming and beautiful monster that made all else seem utterly insignificant. Depending on the weather and the time, it could shimmer a rainbow of colors. When clouds obscured the bright sun, a gray hue painted its side. If the sun chose to display its radiance, a kaleidoscope of blue and white reflected all the way to Mole’s Town. Even though it was a good few miles away from the small village, it retained its gigantic size. Tally could only imagine its true size up close.

It greeted Tally in the mornings and bid a good night to her in the evenings. Her favorite times to view it was at first light and dusk, when the sun was just waking or preparing for sleep. When the sun barely peeked over the horizon early in the day, the tapestry of yellow, orange, pink, and dark blue contrasted wonderfully with the bright blue of the Wall. After the day was over and the sun descended to rest for the night, dark saturated reds, oranges, magenta, and purple burned behind.

Sometimes, Tally dreamed of stealing a horse and galloping to Castle Black and beyond the Wall where she would never be found and would live free of pain and misery. Then she remembered the purpose of the Night’s Watch, and that wish was promptly cast out of her mind.

The whores spent the mornings cleaning up the brothel, washing their clothes in the well outside, and arranging for the evening. Chores were distributed evenly and swapped daily. Tally was given laundry duty. Whereas others detested going out into the cold, Tally preferred this task. It gave her the opportunity to escape the stench of sex and alcohol, and she would be able to view the Wall. Three-quarters of the town was buried underneath the damp, warm cellars, connected by tunnels; nothing interested Tally that would keep her below. The Wall, however, enchanted her.

“Good morning,” said Tally when the Wall was in her sight. She always greeted it whenever she left the cellars. The whores weren’t allowed to talk after hours, and the Mole’s Town villagers avoided any interaction with them whatsoever.

Tally trotted to a nearby well, whose stones were frosted and cold to the touch. Precariously, she leaned forward and stretched for the bucket. She dumped the bundle of clothes and sheets into the wooden pail, then slowly lowered it until she heard it sink into the water. Tally scooped snow from the ground and ran her wet hands through her hair. Since the brothels didn’t have baths, all of the whores relied on snow and soap—if they were fortunate enough to find some—to wash themselves. Tally shivered at the frigid fingers trailing down her neck. None of them were daft enough to wash their bodies; the runaway rivers of the melted snow was enough for them. Most of the Night’s Watch men weren’t too picky about the hygiene of their whores.

“Tally!”

Tally turned. Myriam approached her with a soft smile on her face. Of all the whores, Myriam was closest to Tally’s age, being only one year older than her. Tally was the youngest. Because of their closeness in age, they got along the most. The older whores, though they didn’t mistreat Tally, disregarded her presence for the most part. Tally didn’t pose a threat to their business, but they hardly bore any interest in her. Some of them, like Lillya or Nadacha, looked out for her, however. Tally appreciated that.

“I thought you were changing the rushes,” Tally said, squeezing the water out of her hair.

“Ivarn is sleeping so I thought I might check up on you.”

Tally twisted her mouth to the side. Although she was grateful for the company, if Myriam was caught shirking her responsibilities Ivarn would punish her.

“Make it quick. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Myriam grinned. “I wanted to ask about the client you had last night! I heard that Tyrion Lannister paid for you but that he sent his companion in.”

Jon Snow. Tally had all but forgotten about him. Though Tally had been relieved of her regular obligation—namely, sex—the bastard had infuriated her. The last thing Tally needed was a speech of honor when the organization he was joining hardly had any. Tally respected them for what they did, but she did not appreciate being lectured about honor and keeping vows.

“Yes. Apparently, he was the bastard of Eddard Stark,” Tally explained. “Quite annoying, frankly. No matter. I earned my share for the night, thanks to that golden dragon.”

“We couldn’t believe it when Ivarn danced around waving that golden dragon!” Myriam laughed. “I had never seen him so happy. Perhaps Lord Tyrion will visit again?”

“He only paid that because of my client’s virginity, not out of generosity.”

“Well, if he was losing his virginity, I hope you made it a night to remember.” Tally flushed. Myriam noticed and leaned close. “Right, Tally? You pleased him, correct?”

Tally mumbled out a barely audible response. “No.”

“No?! He didn’t fuck you? Why not?”

“He was mad! Going on about not wanting to break the oath, even though he hadn’t taken it.” Tally groaned and shook her head. “All he wanted to do was talk for the hour. I didn’t mind at first, but then…” It irritated Tally just to think about it. “Can we not discuss this? It angers me, and if Ivarn finds out that all I did was talk, he’ll beat me.”

“But why should he? I mean, you earned him a heap of money.”

“We’re whores, not gossipping wives!” _We never will be._ “You should go back, Myriam. He’ll catch you for sure.”

Myriam could discern Tally’s plot of ridding her, but there was nothing she could do to argue about it. Tally was correct; she couldn’t risk slacking off any longer. “I suppose. You’ll tell me more later, right?”

Tally gave a hasty nod and waved her away with her hands, preferring not to give a verbal consent. That would only seal the contract, and the last thing Tally wanted to do was remember last night.

To distract herself, she retrieved the sopping pile of clothes from the bucket and hung them to dry from one of the clothing lines. Tally watched the thin fabric flutter in the wind, and she looked one last time at the Wall that guarded her night and day.

* * *

The nights grew colder and so did Ivarn. Not as many black brothers came to visit due to the chilly weather, and he would take out his anger on any unlucky whore who happened by. Tally was able to dodge him for the most part, but she was unluckily caught on her way back from laundry duty one morning. Ivarn dragged her to her room and delivered a few blows. She only suffered from a bloody lip, a throbbing head, and a few bruises along her arms. Nothing too different from what she had experienced before.

Lillya tended to her wounds while Myriam snuck in some stale bread from the kitchens. Tally was grateful for the gesture, but she couldn’t chew into the hard loaf without wincing in pain from her sore jaw.

“I don’t think it’s too noticeable,” Lillya assured her, when Tally voiced her worries. Her baby blue eyes complemented her red hair and fair skin, something that most of the Night’s Watch men found appealing. Coincided with her young age of just seventeen, it made her rather favored among the brothers. “Most of the men don’t really care what we look like, anyway.”

Myriam nodded in agreement, her short hair bobbing along. “They don’t usually kiss lips, so you should be fine!”

Tally rolled her eyes. “I’m just concerned that I won’t get any clients because of this busted lip. Ivarn will be much worse if that happens.”

“We haven’t been getting much business anyway, so I don’t think he’ll get mad at you specifically…”

“Ivarn is unpredictable. Who knows when his next tantrum will be?” Suddenly, Lillya pressed firmly on her lip, and the alcohol stung her injury. “Ow!”

“Sorry, Tally.”

“It’s already been a week, with barely any clients! The longer this drought goes on, the worse he’ll become…”

“Isn’t there a saying out there…?” Myriam pondered, tapping her chin. “Something like a long winter will bring a long summer?”

“Stupid. It’s the other way around!” giggled Tally.

“Whoops. Heh.”

Lillya dusted some powder over Tally’s arms to conceal the bruises, rather than resorting to conspicuous bandages. Her head still ached from when it had made contact with the corner of her vanity, but at least it hadn’t bled. They didn’t have a maester or anything to treat fatal wounds, and Tally knew that Ivarn had no problem with replacing her if he killed her. He would have no remorse.

“There wasn’t anything I could do about your lip,” Lillya told her apologetically, “but I don’t think it’ll be too much of an issue. The lights are pretty low in the brothel.”

Tally nodded. “Thanks, Lillya.”

“Opening time will be soon. Make sure you two get ready, okay?”

“Yup! I’ll take care of Tally!” promised Myriam. “Let’s pray to the gods that we have some business tonight! Any gods will do.”

“I don’t believe in gods,” Tally muttered, observing herself in the mirror. Lillya was right; her lower lip, plump from the assault, was scarcely detectable in the dim lighting, and was only discernible close up. Tally heaved a sigh of relief.

“Then who should we pray to?”

“The Night’s Watch.”

The two young girls didn’t take long to prepare. Myriam’s outfit was just as ratty as Tally’s, only it showed more skin. They both were neglected by Ivarn, except for when he required them, so it was left to them to stitch any holes and scrounge some makeup from the town. Tally simply pinched her cheeks and lips to add some color. It hurt, yes, but it succeeded. Unfortunately, Tally did not have as much business anymore.

Tally grabbed her wood harp and made her way to the entrance hall with Myriam. It was a cramped space with little to no privacy. One couldn’t walk a few feet without bumping into another. Tally squeezed her way through to the hearth, cradling her instrument to her chest. As she tuned the harp, she watched the room with keen eyes. There were only four men tonight, all dressed in their black garbs with daggers sheathed at their hips. They jested and drank and eyed the whores who sashayed in. They were already downing tankards of ale; Tally wondered if they were going on a ranging soon.

She plucked at the strings and began a lovely strain that was well-known across the land. It was one of the first songs she ever learned, and it was one of her favorites to this day.

_“I loved a maid as fair as summer_  
_With sunlight in her hair._  
_I loved a maid as red as autumn_  
_With sunset in her hair._  
_I loved a maid as white as winter_  
_With moonglow in her hair.”_

  


Though she hardly believed in true love and romance anymore, it was a nice reminder of the life that she used to have. The bones of her past haunted her, but it was necessary to keep from going insane.

The fire that crackled behind provided a soulful harmony to her dulcet melody, while the cacophony of bellowing voices and high-pitched giggles accompanied the tune. Her fingers danced and so did patrons and whores alike. Some danced alone, some danced towards rooms. Even Ivarn grinned at the booming business. Tally knew was that her music played them like a puppet, and the knowledge of her power somehow caused contentment to swell in her chest.

Another pair of men wandered in, but Tally paid them no mind. She was too focused on her music, concentrating on her troupe of dolls. This notion of complete control was absurd, Tally knew, but it appeased her, satisfied her. Why not indulge herself for just one night?

Tally scanned the room once more only to notice that Ivarn was missing. Where had he gone in those few seconds? He was quite fat, so he couldn’t have gone very far. That and he would be rather easy to spot among the group of gaunt whores and well-built black brothers. Tally preferred to know where Ivarn was at all times in order to properly avoid his outbursts. He was not afraid of pulling a whore aside and expelling his anger in the middle of business hours. If she made a single sound, he would gag her and only worsen the blows.

When a meaty hand grasped her bicep, she gasped and her music came to a halt. Her marionettes ceased their dancing as well, but their lustful rhythm was not ruined; they merely returned to their flirting. Ivarn dug his fingers into her arm. Tally trembled at his touch, fearing that she was to be his victim for the night, but he did not start dragging her off to a secluded room. In fact, he hauled her towards her own room and shoved her inside.

_I guess I have a client,_ concluded Tally, _but he didn’t have to be so forceful about it._

Her eyes fell upon the individual, and she forced a smile onto her face.

“Jon Snow,” she announced. “I knew you couldn’t resist the temptations. Are you finally giving in to your carnal desires? Would you like to fuck me on the bed? Or perhaps you would prefer the wall or the floor? Some men like their first times to be rough.”

“None of those things,” the black-haired male answered. His clothes were sprinkled with snow, which Tally dusted off with her hands. Surprisingly, Jon did not stop her. He watched her with scrutinizing eyes as she hummed to herself and removed his gloves. “I came to talk...again.”

“Come now, we can talk _and_ have fun, Jon Snow,” Tally insisted, pushing off his black leather jerkin covering the same-colored tunic. She wondered why he did not have more layers, but then noticed the thick cloak folded over the chair by her vanity. “Go on. I’m listening.” Her hands, swift and deft, moved to the laces of his breeches, but Jon seized her wrists with a single hand. Tally struggled for a bit before realizing the futility of her attempts. “You’re quite strong. Is that because of your training? Maybe you can show some of your exercises in bed.”

“No. I just want to talk, nothing else.” Jon forcefully shoved her hands away from him and fixed his pants. “Firstly, I...want to apologize for how I acted the other night. It was not my right to judge you for your profession.”

Tally crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. “Is this some kind of weird theatrical act?”

“No, no! I just want a discussion without sex. Understand?”

“I’m joking.” But both of them knew she wasn’t. Jon didn’t press the issue, however.

“Like I said, I shouldn’t have criticized what you were doing or snapped at you,” continued Jon, running a hand through his long hair. The wind had tangled it, making it even messier than the first time she had met him. “Secondly, I just want to know you more. Some of the things you said...intrigued me, I suppose.”

Tally quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Like what?”

“Like when you mentioned that whores and black brothers work together to save Westeros. At first it sounded absolutely preposterous, but then I thought about it and I realized...it was true. As much as I wanted to deny it, it was true.” Jon sighed, tucking his hair behind his ear again. “I don’t know. I guess you just seem wiser than your years, and I wanted to talk with you more.”

_Strange indeed, Jon Snow._

“Well, I...forgive you,” Tally conceded, clearing her throat. She really wasn’t good at this forgiving and apologizing chore. It had been a long time since courtesies and manners were required of her. “I’m not in the clear either. I insulted something that meant a lot to you. I shouldn’t have done that.” Tally watched him proceed to push his hair back and back and back until finally she had had enough. “Stop, stop! Your stupid hair is annoying me.”

“What?”

Tally stomped up to him and ordered, “Turn around.” Her commanding tone urged him to obey her. She had to get on her tiptoes to reach him, but it was enough. She grabbed a chunk of his thick hair and twisted it into a bun. She tied it with the band in her hair. “There. Now you won’t have to be bothered.”

Jon patted the back of his head suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“I made a bun. It should keep your hair out of your face.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Can you teach me how to do it?”

“That’s not exactly part of my job…” Tally mumbled, uncertain. Then she sighed in resignation. “But I suppose chattin’ isn’t either. Come here.”

Tally led him to her cracked vanity so that she would be able to demonstrate it. “You take as much hair as you want and then twist it around and around. Then you wrap this hair band around it.” Tally stepped back to admire her work. “There. Keep the band as a gift from me.”

“Thank you.”

Tally planted her hands on her hips and smirked. “Well, now you owe me! A huge favor, in fact.”

“What?!” exclaimed Jon, eyes wide with astonishment. “But—all you did was tie a bun!”

“Nothin’s free in this world, Jon Snow.” Tally wagged her finger playfully at him, laughing merrily as she did so. “I’m just kidding...partially. It won’t be that extreme...probably.”

Jon heaved a sigh in relief then gave a chuckle. Tally was glad to see him becoming more relaxed and carefree, as opposed to the strict, rule-following boy she had met a week prior. His apology had surprised her, but it was a pleasant surprise. Perhaps Jon wasn’t as one-dimensional as she had initially believed; there was more to this bastard that Tally was intrigued to find out.

When Jon furrowed his eyebrows, Tally asked, “What’re you glarin’ at me for?”

“Your lip,” he answered. Jon raised his hand, as if to touch her, but promptly dropped it to his side. “It’s busted.”

“It’s nothin’,” Tally told him, waving her hand dismissively. “Happens all the time in this business.”

“Did someone do this to you?”

“I told you, it’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t just tell me that,” insisted Jon. The apprehension was legible in his features. “If someone’s hurting you, you need to get out—”

“It’s not that easy, Jon Snow!” Tally shouted, causing Jon to recoil in shock. “Say I leave the brothel. What do you think will happen? Ivarn will hunt me down and beat me half to death to teach a lesson to the other whores.”

“The owner did this to you?” Jon pressed his lips together and clenched his fists at his side. Tally had no idea why he was reacting this way. She was just a whore, someone he had met just last week.

Tally threw her hands up in the air. “You’re hopeless, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s voice grew soft along with his expression. “It’s just…”

“How about this? The only reason Ivarn beats any of us is either because of his temper or we’re not making enough money. If you come at least once a week, maybe even twice, Ivarn won’t punish me.”

Tally felt a little guilty for manipulating Jon like that, but it was a fair deal. Not only would she be spared from the beatings, it would put Jon’s mind at ease. It would benefit both parties involved, not just Tally. Besides, hadn’t Jon said he was interested in learning more about her? This would provide the opportunity. The more Tally thought about it, the more that guilt gradually washed away.

“Do you really think it would work?” pressed Jon. “I mean...just once or twice a week?”

“There are nights that I don’t even get a single client.” Tally shrugged. “And if that don’t appease you, then maybe you could convince your brothers to visit us more. The whole reason my lip is like this is because none of youse was showin’ up.”

“I can try. I don’t know how successful I’ll be, but I can try.”

Tally broke into a wide smile. “Really?” Jon nodded. “Thank you so much, Jon. This could really help us out.”

It wasn’t just for her. It was for Myriam, Lillya, Nadacha, all the whores who shared this suffering together. The influx of business would only profit the brothel.

Their hour passed faster than Tally had expected—or even wanted—but before Jon dismissed himself, Tally stopped him for one last question.

“What is it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows curiously.

“Just wonderin’...why are you so interested in helping me out? I mean...I’m just a whore. And you have your own life to worry about.”

Jon pondered her question for a moment. “I guess you just remind me of someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Tally says "weird theatrical act" she's basically saying "roleplay", but I don't think that's something they would say in a medieval setting so I replaced it. Hopefully it got the same point across.


End file.
